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World’s End
Book One of The Seed Mother

Chapter Fifteen: Endings and New Beginnings

After her dusty hunt in the seed vaults, the warm breeze and comfortable seat felt wonderful. As she cracked open the elderly textbook she smiled at the memory of Steven and Jared, her two favorite boys, hanging out together. She was pleased to see Steven in such a good mood today. It had been almost four months now since he had left the village one last time with Ellen, and Glen on what proved to be a terrible trip to the their former homes in the once-thriving community of Alton. The trip had had several goals: to search for any vestiges of Steven’s extended family, to locate others who might want to come to Falling Spring, and to retrieve anything that might be left of Ellen’s library or her herb plants and the products she’d made of them.

Ellen’s was the first place they had gone. They had found the house mostly trashed but still intact, and still holding a cellar full of dark bottles containing herbal tinctures. They had wrapped them in scraps of cloth and paper and carefully packed them in a pair of potato crates that had been converted to saddle bags for the pack horse. They had hidden those in the barn along with their pack horse, so they’d not be challenged or robbed. They had spent another hour searching the weed-filled garden for herbal mother plants, and found several, including a horsetail rush, a gone-to-seed lovage plant, a similarly decked bronze fennel, horehound and a prized spearmint. Ellen dug up the rush and the mint while the men clipped the seed heads of the other two, wrapped the plants in a scrap of burlap, bagged the seeds, and stowed them with the tinctures.

Proceeding on into town, they’d found the village in ruins, with most of the families gone and those that remained in dreadful circumstances. All semblance of civilization had vanished and chaos reigned. When they stopped to ask about lost relatives, a sinister looking crowd began to form and people had rushed them, trying to take their horses, presumably for food. They had barely escaped, Glen finally shooting one man in the leg and clubbing another away with his rifle barrel as he tried to grab the reins of Ellen’s mare. Some had been family friends, but they had reverted to a desperate state and were almost feral. The trio had told no one where they’d come from and had taken a circuitous route back to Ellen’s barn to retrieve the pack horse and its precious cargo.

They returned to Falling Spring grief-stricken, both Ellen and Steven vowing to never return to that sad place again. Ellen had not grown up in Alton and had no family ties, so the loss she felt was primarily for her home place. Steven, though, was deeply wounded by what he had seen. He made an emotional vow that Falling Spring was now and would always be his home, and he was home for good.

But the experience seemed to add to his depression, and even after months, grief for his lost family tormented him and he was consumed by sadness. As an antidote, he worked himself brutally and was always in search of more to do. Gradually he began to regain some bits of both his sense of humor and his sanity, but he was very quiet now and still worked best when left alone. Even now Glen and Moira and Ellen made sure they never left him alone too often or for too long.

Joey, who was asking them to call him Joel now that he had entered his tweens, loved Steven and seemed to understand his grief on some deep level. He was content to work at Steven’s side for hours in a steady, companionable silence, although with others he was so talkative as to almost be a pest. He seemed to instinctively sense what Steven was going through and was determined to be there for him. As Jared grew, Steven acquired another fan, one who eased his troubles and made him laugh. So Jared was succeeding in a job he didn’t yet know he had.
Jared’s presence might ease some separation anxiety in another few years as Joel reached adulthood and settled into his own path. She thought that path would likely be with Glen. In the winter just past, the men who had journeyed north to Glen’s former homestead to stay through the coldest months had made good use of their time. Glen had proposed they use their idle time to organize a kind of “brotherhood,” of men to serve the village and its environs in an organized way as workers, helpers and defenders. Together they worked out a set of principles, defined their duties and began to train, neither as a militia, a postal service nor a social service agency, but as a curious mix of all those. From the small, frightened, and disoriented array of men and boys there arose a tight unit with strict rules of conduct and a scheduled term of service. The group sometimes served as a law enforcement entity that now patrolled the region around Falling Spring and sometime became handymen, social workers or caregivers, seeing to various of the community’s needs as they arose. The group was open to any person, male or female, in the village and the surrounding environs, if they wished to take the oath and participate in the training. Its headquarters remained secret, in the hidden cave at Glen’s homestead. Its purpose simply to serve with integrity the practical needs of the community’s citizens, as well as those of people living in the surrounding area. As recruitment continued to rise, the stated purpose expanded until now they were considering sending small patrols afield to locate any outlying communities. Locally, they served to pass along news, assist where needed and settle disputes. As they traveled farther into wild and unsettled parts of the territory, they remained constantly on the lookout for useable salvage from the world’s wreckage. Joel planned to join them as soon as he reached the requisite age of 15.

Moira was impressed with Glen’s leadership and insight in seeing what needed to happen with the unsettled men – to give them a purpose, some dignity, and a place to invest their energy. He must have had plenty of time to think, for he’d even come up with a name for the territory surrounding the village. He had said it should honor the people’s evolving traditions of Part Pagan-quasi-Unitarian-Native American-Earth Mother focus, as well as the dedicated brotherhood of helpers dedicated to service, protection, and keeping order in the community at large.

“We appear to be done with the archaic model of man and ‘helpmeet.’ Mothers and sons, or mothers and brothers, is a better model,” he had said, only slightly joking. “It’s egalitarian, it respects everyone, and removes the notion that male energy, with its focus on rule by testosterone, is how things run best. As we’ve seen, that’s just not so, and we have the chance to fix it. We need to give dignity and respect to everyone’s energy. That’s what will keep us running right. I propose we call our piece of the territory surrounding Falling Springs with the name Mumbros, to stand for Mothers and Brothers, and in that way honor them both.”

And so they had voted. The name had taken some getting accustomed to, but people fell into its use fairly quickly. They soon learned that other communities were beginning to stake out what they saw to be their own territories. If they managed to not get into any serious fights over boundaries, this could well evolve into a group of cooperating states. Moira couldn’t help but be pleased at how things were evolving. She opened the book and began to read about hemp.

An hour later, hearing hoofbeats approaching from down the hill, Moira laid her book aside and shaded her eyes with her hand. Far down the way a mounted figure came into view, instantly recognizable. Young Tom Langston had claimed a Missouri Foxtrotter mare gathered in by Glen on one of the Brothers’ trips. The mare’s characteristic gait was evident as Joel appeared to glide up the hill as if seated in a porch swing. The old-timers said if you couldn’t recite the words “a hunk o’ meat and two potatoes” in time with the beat of its hoofs, the animal wasn’t a true Foxtrotter. Tom, having ridden this mount for weeks with his ear cocked to the side to listen to the rhythm, swore that it was true because he’d heard it. She waved as he approached and he swung down easily.

“Go find you some grass and a shady spot,” he said to the mare, looping the reins over the saddle horn, and off she ambled. “I used to think Glen was razzing me about Willie, but she does it too. She understands everything I say. I swear she does.”

“I believe you,” Moira said. She’d had her own experiences with the village’s animals, most particularly with Sheba, her dog, and Stella, the stray cat. Sometimes she swore Stella could hear her very thoughts. All the animals seemed to be showing signs of becoming more aware and more communicative. In fact, the same might be said for some of the humans as well. Ellen insisted that wounds healed faster if she touched them, and it appeared to be so. Moira shook her head in wonder. Even as they clung here at the very edge of survival, it seemed the universe was trying to make amends in odd ways for what they had lost. Not that it was anywhere near an even trade. Not by a mile. Not yet.

“What brings you up this way? Are you looking for Steven? He’s inside.”

“Nope. I found who I’m looking for. You’ve got some visitors down the hill. They’re dressed kind of strange, and they have kind of a different accent. They look like those wha’d’y’call’em, amich, Amish, something, that Glen described after his last trip west. They came driving in a little bit ago in a very nice wagon and it really caused a stir. You’d think somebody had come roaring down Main Street in a new pickup truck from the way people acted. I took them over and got them settled in at the Inn, and told them I’d come and fetch you. Was that all right?”

“It was excellent, clever boy,” Moira said, smiling fondly at the young man. “I guess I’d better put on some clean clothes if I’m bound on official business. You want to ride back and tell them I’ll be down in a bit?”

“Well, actually, I thought I might stay and see if Steven needs any help. You can ride Huffenpuff down, and I’ll come fetch her later. Just tell her to wait over by the spillway. It’s cool there and there’s plenty to eat. Be sure and tell her to stay out of the flowers.”

Moira agreed, put away her book, threw on a clean shirt, and was soon walking up the board sidewalk to the building they’d made the town’s social center and makeshift hotel. A small crowd of the curious was still gathered around the trim and well-outfitted wagon, and they looked at her with eyebrows raised as she passed them with a nod and continued into the Inn.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, but not nearly so long to spot the three visitors.
Her best clue was the flat-brimmed black hat they each wore and their long, flowing beards beneath clean-shaven cheeks.

“Gentlemen. I’m Moira Evans, the nearest thing to a leader we have here. How can I help you?” She was startled when they rose and removed their hats to greet her, but she begged them to be seated and pulled up a chair to the table’s end to join them. Her stomach had lurched at first sight of their beards. But Glen had described them as a peaceful people and had said they had expressed a desire to travel here one day soon to discuss trading their excess grain for products that were in short supply in their area. She supposed that was why they were here and she was soon proved correct.

After a few awkward moments while she grew used to their appearance and accents, and they became accustomed to talking frankly with a woman, they got down to business, and trading survival stories, and just plain visiting.

Mumbros territory could certainly use a steady supply of more diverse and better grains, she told them. They would also be needing good wagons, and harness and tools of all description that could be operated without gasoline or electrical power. When she brought up the subject of wild hemp and expressed interest in obtaining a supply of its fiber, she was pleasantly surprised at their reaction.

They, too, had thought of cultivating it. Even growing wild it supplied more than their simple needs for rope and such. But unfortunately they had lost the knowledge of how to process it for other uses. They would send all she wanted of the plants that grew wild in their territory, they said, but cautioned that it was of no value as a smoking material. They said this last in mock seriousness, and they all shared a laugh.

Then they told her why they had come. Their seeds, they said, were blighted. The wheat continued to flourish, and the oats. But garden seeds that had thrived last year had disappointed in the season just ending, and had not produced enough food for their families without rationing. If things grew worse or if the grain failed, they would go hungry. Even now, they said, the sameness of their diets was beginning to be reflected in their health. They had heard that she had seeds that would grow true, they said. Might she please be willing to share? And if so, would she consider barter as payment?

She would, of course. This was the very circumstance she had foreseen from the beginning. The seeds the visitors had been planting in their gardens were hybrids, purchased from the feed store each year. They had produced well the first year, but in many of their saved seeds the cross had not held. They had not retained their altered genetic pattern and could not reproduce the fruit their parents had delivered. By the time another year passed, some would lose almost completely their ability to produce food. It seemed to her a classic and predictable scenario — but then she was a specialist who understood the seeds and what to expect.

“Certainly we can supply you with seeds from our stores,” she said. “We began last year growing out and expanding our stock because we expected this might happen. All of what we grow are varieties you should be able to save and replant again in years to come. There are some plant families, however, that cross-pollinate very easily, especially the cucurbits, and so you may want to come and get new seeds of things like squash, melons, and cucumbers every year or two, just because they mix so readily.”

“We are grateful for your kindness.” said a brown-bearded, kind-eyed man of about 40 years of age who spoke with a thick Germanic accent. “We will happily repay you with grains and with other things we have that you might find useful. We might not have come so soon to seek aid, but with all the refuges, ah, I’m sorry, refugees, we have experienced difficulties keeping everyone fed and our community in order.” At Moira’s puzzled look, he continued. “When the city to the west of us sank beneath the waters, it was a great tragedy. All those thousands of people. It happened so suddenly that most of them were unable to escape. Those who did, though, still were in the hundreds. They descended on us like locusts, most of them with no food, just the clothing on their backs. It was terrible. We were putting people in the barns, in the cattle sheds, any covered places we could find, because it was winter, you see. Still, many were lost, either from the cold, or from illness, or just from the horror of it all.

“But most survived the winter, and now things are beginning to get better. They are learning our ways, and learning to work differently, and learning not to spend all their time correcting our speech or our beliefs. When the fuel for the automobiles is gone, you learn to respect the wagon-maker a little more, I think.” He smiled at Moira with his kind eyes, and she knew she could trust him with her life – and the seeds.
They had expected to come and place their order now and pick up the seeds when they delivered whatever grain was asked in payment. But some food crops, like brassicas and peas, could still be grown this late in the season, and there was no sense in putting off the agreement for formality’s sake, she decided, or to delay planting when it might mean more hunger.

“Why don’t you all spend the night here as our guests. Tomorrow we will go over your list of needs, and I will prepare a supply of seeds suitable for fall gardens and you can take them back with you,” she said. And then she suggested that perhaps if there were stands of the wild hemp still to be had, and if someone were to travel with them back to their land and take along a pack animal or two, they could bring her some of the stalks and seeds of the wild hemp to begin experimenting with.

“You can bring payment when you return in the spring. Actually, we’ve been discussing whether to invite everyone from the surrounding regions to come here for a spring gathering and to bring their wares to sell or trade. We’ll let you know the dates when they’re settled. But you might as well be getting some fall crops in now. There’s plenty of time for greens and peas and some root crops” Her eyes twinkled.

“You’ll be back to see us more often if we can keep your strength up,” she said.

The brown-haired man blushed but admitted it was so. The men ended up staying two nights and left the third morning with their saddlebags loaded with seeds, along with orders for two of the sturdy wagons and a thousand pounds of grain. It was the beginning of what would be a long and happy association between the communities. In time, Moira suspected, a few brown-haired, kind-eyed children might also grace their village. She hoped that it would be so, for every expansion of the gene pool meant a better chance at the survival of all, for they were not out of the woods yet. And, like the seeds, these men were of good stock.

On the evening before they left, she broached another subject that some thought she should ask.

“You know, not all of our community members here are Christian,” she said frankly. “In fact, it has happened that some of those of more conservative backgrounds feel themselves to be very much in the minority here, and some of them are less than comfortable with that situation. They feel they do not have an adequate church community here to sustain them. Is your community still crowded beyond endurance, or could you consider taking in just a few more, given their yearnings to be with more people of their faith in the broader sense? Given that those with truly radical beliefs have already left us,” she added hastily.

The brown-eyed man grinned widely at this. “It happens that we also have those among us who have the same complaint, but from the other side. They favor a variety of ways, but most lean toward a more Earth-centered tradition. Would you consider a trade?”

She would, and so when the men left, they carried three people who elected to join them for religious reasons. Moira wondered who they would get in return. Better not to speculate, she decided.

That same week, Glen came riding in late in the day from another foray into the wild, bringing with him another newcomer and a heavily laden pack horse. Fast on their heels was a dramatic thunderstorm that boomed and crackled and flashed until everyone put aside their tasks to stop and watch, ready to throw blankets over tender garden crops if it started to hail. But the storm petered out and blew away, leaving a drenched pair begging dry stalls for their horses and dry lodging at the Inn. Moira was called down from her hilltop refuge again as night was falling to meet with Glen and his guest.

“I don’t know what we’re gonna do with this ornery old woman,” Glen said by way of introducing Moira to the grey-haired, still damp stranger, and for a moment she was unsure of which of the women he was addressing. She motioned to a table and they all sat.
“Moira Evans, Letitia Beebe. She claims to be a botanist, or plant specialist, or maybe several kinds of -ists. I couldn’t get it all straight, but when I found her out east of Brixey living in a cave and brewing up potions, I thought we might make some use of her.”

“Elixirs,” the woman snapped, scowling. “Witches do potions. I do elixirs. And formulas, and drugs.” She stuck a gnarled hand out and clasped Moira’s outstretched one. “I’m a biochemist and horticulturist, Miss Moira. And I’m hoping you might find use for the 200-odd pounds of plant starts and ‘potions’ I brought with me. Your fella here thought I should come along without them. He’s still a little put out with me, but they were my life’s work and I wasn’t about to leave them to the hogs. So we worked our way through it, although I think he’s grateful to be about shut of me. I just ask that you put me to work and give me a reason for surviving this godawful mess.”

Moira shook her head in disbelief. If she didn’t already believe in the beneficent bounty of the universe, this would have nailed it for her. She fixed the woman with a gaze of stunning intensity. “Hemp. What do you know about hemp?” she demanded.

The woman flung up an arm and began to tick items off on her fingers. “I have rope hemp, and dope hemp, and five bamboos,” the woman shot back, fire blazing from her eyes and her voice trembling with passion.

“Five … you mean river cane?”

“No, I mean timber bamboo in all dimensions. Tools, pipes, structural bamboo. And medicines. I have quinine, and prickly ash, and you name it. I’ve got either a start or a seed of everything I could save.”

Moira sat back, a smile on her lips and amazement in her eyes. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I’d conjured you up. Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for you to get here?”

This time it was the other woman’s turn to be amazed. As the two sat staring at each other and grinning, Glen stood and picked up his mug of coffee.

“I just knew you two would get along,” he said, irony in his tone as he strode away toward the fireplace.

Moira laughed. ”I’m not sure we’ll get along at all,” she said. “But I’ll bet we’re going to have us some serious fun.”

Tish Beebe wanted nothing to do with a cubicle at the Keep, but settled herself in a little homemade hut alongside the garden, from which she enlarged the stock of medicinal plants, expanded the adjacent orchard to add numerous varieties of berries, and established the bamboo thickets upriver from the village. Her energy was high but her age was advanced, and Moira came up with more than one tempting offer to get her up the hill where facilities were more comfortable. But Tish would have none of it. “Everything I do is centered in the garden and what the plants have to offer. I move away from that, then what earthly use am I? I’m happy here, and I’ll live longer if I can stay that way. So hush and let me get back to work.”

Moira knew who would be her best help, and she didn’t have to bring it up. Both Rick and Toby were following her around like puppies, soaking up everything she could teach them. They would look after her.

At the Inn, though, talk of Tish’s talents centered on her ideas for improving the brewery and its products. Lon Brixey, the volunteer brewmaster, was trembling in excitement for what kind of potion she might be able to conjure up for him. The more he talked, the more expectations grew.

But that would be a while coming to pass, and soon the talk turned to the growing awareness that further explorations of the outlying territory by the Brothers had ascertained that, although they had not yet reached the farthest reaches of the north shore, this part of their once vast nation had indeed become an island. At the next town meeting it was christened “Ozarkia.”

In a comical turn of fortune, a small group of wandering itinerants who had come to study with the Brothers but found the course to be too rigorous volunteered to move upriver to the old Langston and Case farms and establish test plots of the several varieties of medicinal hemp whose seeds Tish had collected, and grow them in fields far enough apart to discourage cross pollination. The sites were chosen because of their many positive features. Some of the facilities remained – the buildings were repairable and they rigged a downsized electric system to run on solar – and the bottomland fields along the river provided fertile ground, cleared and ready for sowing.

The only problem – if it could be called that – was that most of the crew had made sampling of the crop (to test its potency, of course) into a steady habit. They did manage to produce a plentiful, reliable supply of standard cannabis varieties as well as create some new crosses, in particular by grafting the hemp rootstock onto some shoots of the hops they were also growing for making beer. But in addition to creating new drugs and drinks with interesting potential, they became an extremely laid-back bunch. They were called by their downstream neighbors the Hoppers, and their “research station” thence became Hopperville. The vicious band of Ossabow-related pigs who had terrorized the original inhabitants had mostly moved farther out into the untracked wilderness, and the few who remained became more docile as they,too, sampled the local vegetation.

But that, of course, is another story.

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World’s End
Book One of The Seed Mother

Chapter Fourteen: The Village It Takes

The explosive “Aaa-choo” that echoed down the hard corridor was followed quickly by a curse, as Moira worked her way down the dusty shelves far back in a little-visited corner of the seed vaults. She knew what she was looking for but damned if she could find it, and the dust was beginning to get into her brain.

Where could all the dust be coming from in what was supposed to be a sealed chamber? Well, come to think of it, it couldn’t be that well sealed or the air would have gone bad years ago. She guessed it could be coming down through the ventilation shafts, although those were supposed to be covered with filters. Maybe the earth tremors that had begun over two years ago had knocked something loose or made a crack somewhere. She would get Steven to look into it. That wasn’t her job or why she was down here.

Somewhere in this ill-assorted mess was a book of such arcane information that she had thought best to keep it tucked away in earlier days, when the vaults had been part of a living history museum and she was simply its chief of operations. She’d been hired based on her knowledge of plants and animals. And yet some plants, in an era that was beginning to seem in many ways far back in archaic times, had been on a forbidden list. You weren’t supposed to know anything about them at all. Don’t ask, don’t tell. No, wait. That was another issue. Never mind.

It seemed now as if nearly everything from those times was swiftly receding into the dim past, so much had the world changed. She expected the same experience was common to everyone. But the book. Where was it? She’d held onto it even though it had been somewhat of an illicit tome in the world that once was. She had been one of those forward looking individuals who thought there was more to be considered about the notorious hemp plant than its reputation as the devil’s weed. For one thing, she’d traveled abroad frequently in her younger days and had seen first hand some of the industrial uses to which it had been put in other, less puritanical cultures. Certainly in the last days of the old world the laws had changed and research had made some forward strides. But much of that new research had not been published, and now probably would never be.

She’d been putting the word out since last year that she was looking for samples of both mature plant material and seeds from as many different varietal sources of hemp as possible. She knew she must locate every possible existing variety for more than one reason. First, with their limited pharmacological capabilities, they needed to make use of all the medicinal plants they could find and learn uses for. Not long before the Change, it had been discovered that different strains of cannabis had different medicinal properties which still needed evaluating. And secondly, she knew that at least one variety of the hemp plant had once been valued primarily for its fiber. In fact, farther to the north and west, over in Amish country and beyond where some of the terrain was flat enough for row crops, hemp had once been widely grown for that purpose. But that was before the cotton, tobacco, and liquor industries had taken aim at its smaller cousin, the marijuana plant, and had pressured Congress into outlawing the cultivation of any variety of cannabis. However, she knew now that the wild hemp still flourishing on roadsides and in waste spaces in areas where it had once been cultivated was far different in character than the shorter, bushy, aromatic specimens that were cultivated for more medicinal and recreational purposes. They needed all of it. Annie had brought a few seeds, but they were old, and only one plant survived, a male that did not produce viable seeds.

Just last week when a stoned-looking young man stopped at the village for supplies, she persuaded him to share with her a small quantity of his obviously recreational variety – because it had seeds.

She’d had the devil of a time convincing him to part with a gram or two, plus some additional seeds, but he had finally capitulated, and now they had on hand enough seeds to produce one strain of the valuable medicinal in quantity sufficient for use and research. The object now was to procure seeds of other varieties, particularly the strains with differing medicinal properties. She was pretty sure she could trade with any surviving farmer to the northwest for the wild hemp, the one used in industry. There were still people alive in that country, for Glen had met them. One day the fiber and the seeds would come. To keep the strains pure, the fiber plant would need to be grown widely separated from its cousins to avoid cross pollination. Perhaps they should just continue to let the plant grow where it was happiest, and establish good trading partners with people in other places who grew different varieties. Ellen the herbalist had claimed most of the resinous plant material obtained from the young man and was busily making tinctures for use as painkillers and tranquilizers. The seeds had been passed on to Toby and a number of other reliable growers to do with as they would. A small portion of plant material was passed to Annie, who was now extracting its resins and trying to track the markers that would make the variety distinguishable from any others.

If they could find reliably useful varieties, most other issues would be moot. For instance, if some folks decided to indulge in a toke or two purely for recreation, it was none of her business. It was hard enough to enforce such rules as were absolutely necessary for survival. She didn’t have time to keep track of everybody’s personal habits so long as they posed no harm to others, and neither did anyone else. Besides, every one of the survivors still carried the immense burden of loss, not just of family, friends and loved ones, but of their entire context as human beings. How could she argue against any remedy for pain, particularly the pain of deep grief and heartache? But now she was drifting, and she must keep on track.

What she needed desperately, and as soon as possible, was information on how the plants of the fiber-producing hemp could be processed into the goods and materials that were rapidly becoming rare commodities in this isolated culture. Paper, for one thing. And rope. And door mats, shoes, baskets, clothing. Goddess, the list was endless. Leather served for some purposes but was itself in short supply. Split white oak would do for durable baskets but had little tensile strength. She had begun her dusty search when she’d remembered reading that the oil extracted from hemp seed was extremely versatile and easily processed into a variety of fuels and lubricants, including lamp oil.

In just these past year and some months some things once thought crucial to life were gone, used up, and no replacement had been found that could be produced in sufficient quantity. They’d soon be reduced to burning animal fat for light if nothing else could be found. The small amount of electricity from the mill pond generator was providing some comforts for now, but even at its peak it could supply only minimal amounts beyond what was needed to keep the vaults dry and evenly heated.

She had been both generous and practical, she thought, in allowing its use to drive power tools used in the construction of housing for the rapidly growing community. They might as well use the tools, and use them up, while there was power to spare, she reasoned. After all, both the tools and the generator would wear down and then wear out over time. Once they were gone, there might well be no replacing them. They were merely buying time and sparing these unintentional pioneers some physical effort as they struggled to adjust to a world of vastly different and far fewer resources. From here on, there seemed very limited potential for the kind of growth that was once called “progress.”
Fortunately, those long-silent folks who had earlier supplied her with the “doomsday stash” had sent numerous large cartons of rechargeable batteries, and more of lightweight, flexible solar panels. Those too would be useful for their limited lifespan as would, eventually, the still half-full carton of once cheap and now priceless butane cigarette lighters.

Unfortunately, some of the settlers at Falling Spring hadn’t figured out the need to be frugal, or perhaps were still in denial. It was only through her dogged determination and occasional threats that the more short-sighted of the citizenry hadn’t decided to just chuck the preservation of the vitally important seed stocks in favor of holding on just a little longer to that last precious symbol of their former lives — electric light. Never mind that the supply of light bulbs was dwindling, too, and there was no conceivable way at this point in the new world’s evolution to make more. Goddess, what primeval forces were at work. She was seeing deeply what fear was driving them all, to be without a way to light the darkness. No wonder they panicked so easily when reminded that the age of cheap and plentiful electric power had simply ended. Well, she meant to fix that problem for good and all, if she could only find that damned book!

An hour later she had found helpful instructions on brewing homemade beer, making vinegar from apples, basic soap making, leather tanning, and fermenting techniques. And a recipe for a variety of intoxicating beverages, including raspberry mead, of all things. All useful information, but not what she sought. She tried to remember where she had last seen the text on hemp production and processing.
Wait a minute. That’s right. It was a reference book, not something from popular culture. She’d come across it at the university library’s annual book sale while still in grad school and had been intrigued enough to carry it home. She’d paid something like a quarter for it, she remembered. Now, she thought, it was priceless. It was also likely to be stored with the rest of her ag reference books on a shelf in her bedroom upstairs. Oh, great. She’d spent a morning down here in the dust for nothing.

Well, not quite, she thought with a grin. She’d found the beer-making book. What they’d managed so far was drinkable, more or less, but that’s all. Their crop of barley had been meager since it wasn’t really suited to the local climate. Maybe they could substitute wheat for part of the malt and still get something drinkable – if the wheat harvest was sufficient. It was worth a try. She’d drop that book by Lon Brixey’s cabin down next to the mill. An African American carpenter and cabinetmaker by trade before the Change, and one of the latest arrivals, he’d been trying to get the woodright’s shop, powered by the mill wheel and used by the house builders, developed into a better design so he could make more than lumber. He was talking about making, among other things, barrels and casks for storage vessels. He’d also frequently expressed serious displeasure at the mediocre quality of the beer and the few fruit wines they’d managed to produce. If he wasn’t interested in developing the craft of beermaking, she’d bet he’d find someone who was.

Someone overhearing her thoughts might have thought her a little too focused on the production of addictive substances, she realized with a grin. But she knew what her growing extended family was going through in its struggle to adjust to this new and difficult life. If she could spare any of them an ounce of pain and make their daily lives smoother, that would be just fine with her.

She bypassed the energy-sucking freight elevator and headed for the stairs. She was stronger than she’d been in years from the physical labor required to stay abreast of her duties and jogged easily up the stairs from the vaults, brushed the dust from her clothes, and had another sneezing fit at the top. When she entered her apartment by the back door, the book was just where she’d thought it might be, tucked away right between chickens and grains on a closet shelf.

She leafed through its introductory pages as she strolled absently out of her personal quarters, across the hall, and into the cavernous room that had once been the exhibit space of the visitor center, now converted to use as an infirmary and for other purposes. Most of the equipment in the hall, including the antique tools and implements on display, had long since been scavenged for direct use or as patterns to copy, their once-obsolete designs having suddenly become essential again. She looked up, hearing the screech of a nail being pulled through wood, and found Steven dismantling one of the last remaining tall display cases. It was on its side with its front open, the heavy glass panels from it and two other cases leaning against a nearby wall.

“What’s going on, my good man?” she asked, moderating her tone as she noted a small, moccasined foot protruding from what she’d thought was a pile of rags. “I see you’ve stolen my son.” Jared, her adopted firstborn, was just now old enough to escape from the village nursery so long as he had supervision. He was becoming Steven’s frequent companion on days when his tasks posed no danger, like today.

Steven nodded and smiled. “I thought I’d give the nannymamas a break for a few hours. I know people describe his kind of energy as ‘all boy,’ but I swear, this one seems to be about a boy and a half.” He smiled as he stood and put out an arm to pull her to him. They embraced awkwardly, each unwilling to put down their tools — hers the book and his a pry bar. Exchanging smiles of easy affection, they held each other a moment and then stepped apart.

She pretended an official tone as she demanded, “And what mischief are you up to today?”

“I’m commandeering these articles for use in the greater plan, oh wise and generous one,” he said, affecting a similarly officious tone and saluting with the pry bar. There appeared to be more than one mischievous child in the room.

“In other words, you’re absconding with more loot from my place to put to some questionable purpose of your own,” she returned.

“That’s it, exactly,” he said with a grin, looking pleased with himself. “The glass will make some great windows for the school, and these cases will hold lots of books and supplies, once I’ve put in some sturdier shelves. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Not a bit, especially since I’ll end up with more of this great big room so its other endeavors can expand and offer more space for essential services. The theater is great for meetings. We can seat everyone and more in that space,” she said, gesturing toward the adjoining room.

“This room has the capacity to become a medical center of sorts. Annie has her lab, Nurse Alice has her clinic, and Ellen is developing a proper herbary to process and store medicinals in what used to be the other restroom and the janitor’s closet inside. They all seem to get along well enough, and are learning a great deal from each other.”

Steven commended her farsightedness, but she demurred.

“ It had to happen. At first, I was obsessed with keeping this whole facility, excepting Annie’s lab and the warehouse, as some kind of last remnant of the world before. But I’m over it. I don’t really need anything in here for me beyond my apartment. I do want to hold onto that, because I really think I’d like to have another child, once this guy’s a little farther along. I was against it at first, because my job gives me little time to spare caring for an infant. But now that the nannymamas have organized, that’s not so much of an issue. I’d have the benefit of those extra hands. But what we really need” she said, shifting gears, “is a community health, science, and research center. And what we don’t need is another structure to build. So I’m thinking this is it.”

“Yeah. Like a Keep,” he said and grinned, for everyone called it that, but she still found it awkward.

Yeah, kinda,” she agreed. “I’m beginning to see that.”

“Well, don’t see it too clearly. There’s bound to be another meeting,” he said and made a face.

“Oh, Goddess bless us, not that,” she groaned. They laughed, and she returned to her previous focus. “Well, hey, we’re going to have to do that anyway pretty soon, because I’ve just now found us the answer to most of life’s biggest problems.” She held up the book and he read its title.

“What’s this? ‘Hemp Production and Processes?’ Oh, right. You’re going to get us all so stoned we don’t give a rip for life’s biggest problems, is that it? Some answer.”

She held the book up and shook it under his nose, a menacing look on her face. “No,” she hissed. “I’m gonna take this stuff and grow you a shirt – and some tow ropes, and maybe some house paint, and a goddamn night light, you scientifically challenged woofer. You know what this means? We work out how to break this stuff down on a large scale into its component parts and we have a manufacturing base. We have raw materials for some of the most basic goods of civilized life. It’s all right here, in this one amazing plant.

“And I’m not blowing smoke, buddy. Did you know that this fiber is, ounce for ounce, stronger than steel? We can make ropes and cables and baskets and paper and clothing, plus lubricants and oils for nearly every use imaginable. We can cook with it and light our houses at night. This stuff is going to save our asses, Steven. No kidding. I’m certain of it.”

“Wow. Okay then, I guess I’m impressed,” he said, sobering. “So how do we go about it? How do we get these wonders to happen?”
She heaved a sigh. “Let’s save that for the meeting. I need to bone up on my subject matter some more before I go blowing about it like this before an audience. But I’m glad you said ‘we,’” she said with satisfaction. “If we can locate the right seeds, I’m sure we can get the stuff to grow. But then to learn the refining processes, to work it into usable forms, I’m going to need the right implements, including some pretty sophisticated machinery. Warning’s fair – I’m probably going to be keeping your forges hot all summer.” She gave him a wicked grin, which he answered with eyebrows raised.

“Oo, baby, you know what I like,” he quoted the long-ago popular song. They shared another hug and a chuckle, and he returned to his task. Moira tiptoed out, leaving Jared to his nap, and found a sunny corner outside, next to the greenhouse and out of the wind, where she settled down to read everything she could squeeze out of this little book about industrial hemp. It was going to be their salvation. She just knew it.

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World’s End
Book One of The Seed Mother

Chapter Thirteen: Troubles

Some weeks later, just as the main portion of the village was ending its work day, another lot of would-be settlers arrived, led by a tall, very slim, bearded man who introduced himself as Ephram Larch. He had a haughty demeanor as he scanned the parts of the village visible from just inside the gate, suggesting he was examining the accommodations and finding them wanting.

When asked the usual question about beliefs and world view, he snorted and said, “Truer Christians you’ll never find anywhere.” Behind him on a handsome blue roan horse was his younger self, by the look of him. He was Larch’s son, called Brynner. After him came a young couple, Leatrice and Huck Lewis, in a buckboard wagon loosely filled with supplies, some of them piled to make a bed for Eva Swan, an elderly woman who was Leatrice’s mother. She appeared to be quite ill. Someone had sent for Moira and when she came down the hill, Glen was waiting for her just out of hearing from the visitors.

“I don’t like this bunch, Moira. I saw this fellow up by old Terisita preaching to a little bit of a crowd, pitching hell and damnation and wrath of god stuff. I never invited him nor any of his crew. He must have got wind of us and followed our trail.”

“Well, we may be stuck with him at least for the short term, as it’s too late in the day to just send them out into the wild. We’ll have to put them up for a little bit. It won’t take us long to suss out what they’re made of.”

Glen nodded and started to walk away, then stopped. “We’d best have someone keep watch over them until we know what they’re up to. I can’t help but think that he, at least, has some of his own designs in mind for this place.”

“You know who we might put to the job?”

“How about young Ted? He’s beginning to get his strength back and is looking to be of help. You might have a word with him over supper.”

“Or sooner,” she replied. They parted and Moira drew nearer the conversation by the gate.

Rick had finished his assessment of their needs and was on his way back to the his little house, which also served as the village canteen and welcome shed, to find the village map and see what nooks and crannies might be available to hold the five newcomers. Moira meant to introduce herself, but stopped when she heard the hiss of Ephram’s hoarse whisper.

“I wonder where they got that little nancy-boy,” he spit. “Looks like they could offer a proper welcome, instead of sending out some pervert to paw over the weary travelers.”

She stepped forward. “I’ll be the one to do the welcoming, mister. Although I wonder that you’d be so soon willing to bite the hands that mean to make your dinner.”

Ephram flushed and yanked his hat from his head.

“Beg pardon, Ma’am. I didn’t mean to speak poorly. Where might your husband be, if you’ll permit me to ask?

“Ask away. But you’ll not find him. I’m not here in place of my husband. I’m here representing what’s left of the federal government. And I’d like you to state your business here.”

“You’ve got no man to be in charge? What kind of place is this?”

“It’s my place, mister, and unless you and your friends mean to sleep in the cold dew outside the fence tonight, I suggest you learn to watch your tongue. We’re not a community that excludes people for their differences, unless they make themselves intolerable.”

At that moment Rick reappeared and began to direct the visitors.

“I have a little cabin right at the end of Main Street that’s empty. It’s small, but it will serve temporarily. There’s not much for bedding, but I expect you’ll have some with you. It’s three rooms, so Mr. and Mrs. Lewis can have one, Mister Larch and his son will take the next, and your mother can have a room to herself. I’ll take you there now, then show you gentlemen to the stables. If your mother needs a nurse, we can see to that as well. I’ve already sent someone to tell the kitchen to rustle you up some dinner.” He ushered them away into the gathering dusk and Moira, shaking her head at the bizarre encounter, headed for the farmhouse to propose a new job for Ted. Glen was right to be concerned. She had no idea what the others were about by coming here, but Larch was going to be trouble. Of that she had no doubt.

The next night was meeting night and was attended by all, including the new arrivals. The village’s human population had now grown to 25 and if the newcomers stayed would hit 30. They were now officially full, since no other housing remained except for the summer kitchen behind the farmhouse, and with its vast brick oven and iron cookstove it would not easily be converted from its original purpose.

Now that most of the harvest was in, it was time to assess the community’s progress and shift most of the harvest crew to other tasks, most of them involving construction. Moira called on Eldon to make the first report.

“As y’ know, we’ve been shorthanded at every turn, so things have gone slower than they might have. However, since last week I’ve taken a crew and four wagons up to my old place, and we managed to bring back about half the lumber I had stored up there. We’ll need to start on the school soon. But given the way people keep coming in, we thought it best that the Inn be given first priority. With the foundation work already done and the walls up, we’ll be raising some partitions up on the second floor by end of the coming week to make some sleeping rooms. We can divide up the downstairs as soon as we can decide on what goes into an Inn.”

He asked for help with the design and both Rick and Toby raised a fluttering hand. Toby had a word to say on inns and what they should offer. “Something to drink besides water would be good for a start,” he said with an impish grin. At this a laugh and a cheer went up.

“If enough basic equipment could be salvaged from stores and from what other gathering expeditions might bring, a small restaurant or pub could be assembled so people could sleep and take their meals there,” Ellen commented.

More good news followed as Annie LeBeaux announced the completion of her laboratory. In her report she said she, Ellen, Alice Compton, and Haley Slocum were now working to develop an infirmary/pharmacy/dispensary within what had been the large public space at the visitors center so they could better see to the residents’ ongoing medical needs.

The next report on the harvest, by Toby, was not so encouraging.

“As you know, much of the planting was gotten in late, due to lack of hands to do the work. We’ve been fortunate, as most of you who came later brought some food stocks with you. Still, we won’t know where we stand until all the root crops are in. It’s going to be touch-and-go even at best. As it stands now, we’re just barely going have enough food to get us through the winter. The livestock situation is some better, for we’ve had two good cuttings of hay and are looking at one more, maybe, before frost. But if very many more folks show up, well…”

Just then, Helen spoke up. “One thing we could do, and we’ve already started it somewhat, is use the big kitchen and larder up here to make at least one of the days’ meals for everyone. That way we can better portion out the food and make sure everyone gets at least one good hot meal a day. There should also be at least some food and snacks kept at the Inn when it’s finished, hopefully before winter. We should probably put a food crew together to see the whole thing is organized and efficient, so things don’t go to waste.”

“That’s good,” said Moira. “Anyone who’s interested in helping with that, get with Helen after meeting.” Several nodded, and Eldon raised his hand.

“It sounds like to me, if we mean to be careful with the food and still have room for more incomers, I’d best be starting on a boarding house next, or a dorm, or bunk house. Something. If we could find the right salvage, I could put in a commercial kitchen there, and we could serve a noon meal for everyone down there, with a regular dining room.

Helen quickly whispered in Moira’s ear and she nodded

“If you can put together something sturdy enough to house it, you can take the whole kitchen from up here on the hill,” Moira said with a grin. “The village has far more use for it than I do, and it’d be more convenient for everyone, especially Helen, because she’d have more ready help.” Another round of nods followed.

“Any questions or other issues,” she asked.

Ephram Larch raised his hand. “Where is your church?” he demanded.

Moira hated his tone, but the question was a valid one.

“Well, Mr. Larch, since you’re new here, you probably don’t know much about the history of this place. It has only been a real village for less than a year. It’s actually part of what used to be a small national park and was intended to be a work of living history, demonstrating how folks lived in centuries past. The Park Service staff were building replicas of what facilities would exist in such an old pioneer town, and they just hadn’t gotten to the church yet. But if you’d like one, you’re certainly welcome to help build it. I’m sure we have several carpenters willing to help. And as it happens, we already have a minister.” She had Ray stand and introduced him to the newcomers. He stammered a welcome awkwardly, but was smiling when he sat down.

After suggesting it might be time for those assembled to gather themselves into smaller groups or crews according to their interests and talents, Moira called the meeting to a close and announced that the next week’s meeting would be devoted to the subject of education – everyone’s education – and how to develop best practices for living in the world as it had become. As usual, everyone’s thoughts would be welcomed. Then Ellen brought in trays of cookies pebbled with dried fruit and a spare quantity of nuts. She drew close as she handed Moira a pair of cookies.

“That went well, I thought. How about you?”

Moira grinned and shook her head. “I don’t know. The more I think things are settling into place, the weirder they seem to get. I think we’re going to have some trouble out of that Larch guy. He reminds me a little too much of some other guys we had to deal with once, in the long-ago.”

Ellen’s lips tightened. “Then deal with him we will,” she replied. “I don’t suppose you considered just shooting him when he came up to the gate?”

Moira snorted a laugh that sent cookie crumbs flying, and shook her head yes, then no. “Too many people about,” she choked out, and they both collapsed in gales of laughter. When someone asked what was funny, Ellen shook her head. “It’s a very long story,” she said, and Moira chimed in with a “Too long. Much too long.” For the rest of the evening, they avoided looking at one another because the meeting of their eyes set off more giggles. Evidently, they agreed the next morning, that once grim matter had finally been laid to rest.

It was as Moira feared. Ephraim Larch, despite all cautionary words directed at him, seemed determined to throw up obstacles to virtually every aspect of any plans for the village’s future. First he wanted to challenge the actual structure of community life itself. His general complaint centered around the notion that women were in charge of everything that mattered, and that just wasn’t right. They were making decisions they just weren’t suited to, he said, which Steven and Glen found hilarious. It especially rankled him that Moira was the community’s highest authority, and no argument, even the one that she represented the last vestige of government, would appease him. For her part, Moira had been done with trying to appease him about anything from the time she overheard his first sniping, whispered comments at the gate.

At the next town meeting to discuss, among other things, the principles by which their community might move into the future, Larch had an opposing opinion about everything and Moira soon tired of his interruptions. He first tried to divert the discussion into the need for armament, which was rebuffed. When discussions turned to the need for a school, he asserted that the school’s coursework must be guided by fundamentalist Christian principles. Then he insisted that all subjects other than homemaking should by rights be taught by men.

Moira had had enough. “Mister Larch, I believe you have misunderstood what we are here to do. We are making plans for a school, a school that will address life as we know it. It must serve to prepare those who will come after us to live in that world. It is far, far too soon to discuss what we plan to teach in it, and how, and by whom. We need to move on with the real concerns that face us today.”

He continued sputtering, and she said, finally, “How about this? Next week we will take up consideration of our various belief systems, our attachment to traditions, and the need to accommodate a diverse population. Will that do?”

“No, but I see I’m outranked here,” he snarled. “And as for true Christian traditions versus this ‘diversity’, it appears to me there’s only two traditions here, the true believers and your little rabble of heathens. I’m not sure you should even have a place at the next meeting.”

Moira smiled a broad and very cold smile at that. “I will be the judge of where my place is, thank you. And if I need your advice, I’ll ask for it. Now sit down and hush. We have work to do, and you’re being a hindrance.” Those gathered moved closer in and kept to the subjects before them, and soldiered on to the end of the meeting.

Then came an event the following week, just hours before the next scheduled meeting was to start, that turned the discussion about diversity and traditions and one’s place in things completely on its head. Rick and Toby had just finished serving up morning tea, coffee, and little breakfast buns to the early workers stopping by their small cantina when they heard the sound of singing, many voices singing. And then there was a shout, followed by a whoop of joy, again from many more voices than should be there. Evidently there were visitors at the gate. But when Rick reached the entrance, he could scarcely believe his eyes. This new congregation, if that’s what it was, was possibly the most ethnically and racially diverse group of humans he’d seen since moving years ago from California to the Ozarks. There were eleven of them in all, including, when they’d gotten the stories straight, three African-Americans, two Asians, one Pacific Islander, an Arab, a Sikh and three people of various Hispanic origins. And they were very happy to be there, apparently, because they were laughing, cheering, and all talking at once. By the time Toby had raced up the hill and fetched Moira, Rick had made at least a little headway in sorting out their story.

First of all, they were tourists, or had been, all of them from the St. Louis area. They had been riding on a tour bus just north of Memphis, returning home from the Gulf coast, where they’d spent the Thanksgiving weekend at the casinos in Biloxi. Then the first big earthquake hit. The driver had managed to stop without crashing the bus, but they had been very close to the fault zone. They had exited the bus safely, but had afterward suffered many injuries and some fatalities during their first few days while making their way through some violently disturbed terrain that was never still and was rapidly filling with water. They finally made their way to Poplar Bluff and found food and clean water and shelter of sorts, even though the city, which they insisted on calling Popular Buff was mostly in ruins. They were welcomed after a fashion and some had stayed there. But there were too many of them, and some proved too “diverse” for some, so that portion had decided to move on to what they called “Vanbyren.” Room had been made for them there, but grudgingly, for that town was already overcrowded and resource poor, and when spring arrived and the winds subsided, most had been ready to attempt another trek in hopes of finding either an abandoned town where they could settle together or someplace where they might be better received. They had experienced just too much hostility and suspicion, especially toward their darker colleagues, from those very homogenous, i.e. white settlements, to feel safe, they said. They’d heard rumors of some fabled settlement where it was said people of diverse origins might be welcome, and they had decided to try for it, using a highway map with the little park shown on it. That leg of their journey had taken some two weeks, they said.
Their arrival threw the entire ensuing meeting into chaos, leaving Ephram Larch so dumbfounded he had nothing to say. Instead of wrestling over beliefs, the discussion was on how many rooms at the Inn could be quickly made livable and how soon a dormitory could be finished. Then there was the question of how on earth they would all be fed. Fortunately, along with the newcomers had come a trio of pack animals carrying a supply of foodstuffs along with their meager belongings, so concerns over immediate hunger were assuaged. It was obvious, though, that this was only a very short term solution. The entire flock was bedded down in the cavernous lower floor of the building that was to be the Inn. Sandwiches and snacks were brought down from the kitchen at the Keep, and they got comfortable as Moira explained to them the conditions under which the community was organized. They were thrilled to comply.

As for the meeting, it was decided that further discussion about schooling as well as about religious traditions would just have to wait until the chaos had subsided.

The conflict, however, was far from over. Some who had arrived earlier, the Riggs sisters in particular, had already expressed discomfort over how few “traditional Christians” existed in the population. There were Christians of various sorts among the new arrivals, though, and Moira was encouraged, for Larch and the Riggs girls had now found some things in common with people who at least marginally shared their beliefs. Things should get better now, she thought.

But instead, they got worse, not through anyone’s fault, or from bad intentions, but because of the serious issues that had to be faced regarding their real-life circumstances. Even before the last of the fall harvest was in or the huge batch of newcomers arrived, it was evident there simply would not be enough food to keep everyone fed all winter without depleting the seed stocks to dangerous levels. Without sufficient seeds to replant and enough extra to save against crop failure, they could only delay the demise of the entire settlement. Again it was Glen who came up with a solution, over the first family’s dinner table in the center’s former conference room.

“I’ve enough stored away at my place, in a large, roomy cave below my house, to feed maybe twelve —fifteen people over the winter,” he said. “Plus, the hunting is really good up there. Why don’t I take that many of the single men and boys up there and hole up for the winter. It’s a good shelter, they’d have water and a way to keep warm, for there’s plenty of downed timber to cut. And the cave was used as a hideout during the Civil War, so it’s been worked on to make it a little more homey. We could spend the winter passing around our skills and learn things from one another. And without all us heavy eaters around, you should have plenty on hand to keep the ones who stay. I mean, we could just go up there and bring back the stores, but that wouldn’t solve the drain on other resources or the housing problem.”

It was not the best of solutions, but it might work, the family decided. In fact, town meetings aside, here at the dinner table at the Keep was where most essential policies guiding the community were often formed and refined. They had taken seriously Joey’s notion of calling the massive structure the Keep because they kept not just the seeds there but priceless tools, knowledge, and records – the irreplaceable essentials, in those deep, climate controlled vaults. It also remained the only private meeting place for these few who were charged with keeping order as the population swelled and village life became more complex.

They presented Glen’s solution to the villagers at the next meeting and it was accepted. But when the time came to select who would go, religion, in the form of Ephram, again became a problem. Urged on by him, many of the more conservative Christian men claimed they were unwilling to leave their families “unprotected.” Nor did they want their young men spending months away from their families, especially in the company of those they considered unchurched heathens.

Then Moira caught wind of another, more sinister plan that represented a larger threat to the community. Ted, who was still keeping an eye on the Larches, had heard them scheming over a plot to wait until the other men left, then oust her as the community’s leader and replace her with a “good Christian man.” Not surprisingly, Ephram was both the instigator of the plan and the prime candidate to replace her. She hurriedly called a family meeting at the Keep. Then, backed by Glen, Steven, Joey, and Ellen, she called the villagers together in a special town meeting and spelled it out for them.

“I’m embarrassed that this discussion has to take place at all, but since it appears necessary, let me be as clear as possible. That you were welcomed here at all,” she said, looking pointedly at Ephraim Larch, “is a testimony to our generosity and decency as a family. We had already established our own rules and laws for this place which is in our keeping. If you mean to stay here, then you must respect that generosity as well as our ways. If you cannot abide them, then I invite you to seek shelter elsewhere. I am confident there are other communities more to your liking that would welcome you. In fact, we can provide you with maps to show you the way and loan you the transport to get there. And we could certainly use the space. Then there is the matter of resources. We have already agreed that in order to survive the winter some of you will have to spend those winter months elsewhere regardless of your personal wishes. None of us wish to leave or to send others away. We simply do not have and cannot get enough food for all of us to stay here through the coming winter. In addition, from observing the weather patterns as we head into the fall, we think it’s likely that the violent storms we experienced last winter may repeat themselves. So if we, and you, are to make this move, and do it deliberately, we must begin preparations now. At the first sign of worsening weather, Glen will take the men who have the least attachments here and head north. They will spend the winter months there at his home beside the Jack’s Fork River and return to Falling Spring as soon as the storms abate in early spring. Anyone who can’t abide this arrangement, or who can’t abide our ways, is welcome to choose alternatives. Glen can tell you about a couple of communities that are more – conservative, if that’s what you prefer – and help you to gather your belongings and move there before travel becomes dangerous.”

“I can be their guide and take them there, if they can be ready to go soon,” Glen agreed. Asked to define “soon,” Glen said, “within the next couple of weeks.”

At that, Ephram leaped to his feet.
“I’ll tell you what’s going on here,” he said in a loud, hoarse voice, spitting in his rage. “These women, these witches, are sending us good Christian men off to die so they can have our women and turn them into witches, or worse. They don’t have the right to say what we’re to do. They’re women! They shouldn’t even be allowed to speak. This place belongs to God! If anyone’s going to leave, it should be these godless heathens with their circles and charms.”

Several people looked surprised and some were offended at his outburst, but a few were nodding their heads. He was just getting into the rhythm of his speech when a metallic click caught everyone’s attention. Larch turned to look at Moira and found himself staring down the barrel of her pistol, which was aimed at his head.

“I’ll tell you what gives me the right,” she hissed in a voice no one had heard her use before. “This place is in my care. The responsibility for its survival is mine. I have paid for it in blood. A long time ago, before any of you knew of its existence, I was given the job to protect it. I take my job seriously, Ephraim. I would kill for it. I have killed for it. And I would do it again if need be.” The crowd surged back at the threat and bedlam threatened.

She holstered the pistol and raised her hands, calling for quiet.

“Listen to me. Listen. Do you really think you have been sent here because you’re good Christians, or because you believed we were? Do you not know where you are? This is the last outpost, the last hope, so far as we know, of rebuilding human civilization. Do you think we will let this outpost fall in order to appease your beliefs, or anyone’s? You may think what you wish and go where you wish to think it, but here at Falling Spring we will place our faith in human dignity and intelligence. We will worship the world that has let us live another day here. We will honor our differences and find common ground. And we will care, by any means necessary, for the seed stores in our keeping.
“They, not you, are our future. Without them there will be no future for any of us. If you would like to participate with us in this endeavor, then I advise you to keep your divisiveness and your nasty little egos (she said this last looking straight at Ephraim) to yourself, and join the work. Until and unless we find out differently, we must carry on as if we truly are the last hope of humankind. We don’t have time for this petty conflict over whose God is in charge. Everybody’s God carries equal weight here. If you have a problem with that, then leave. Otherwise, let’s stop this nonsense and get back to work.”

And they did. When Ephram turned back to look at the crowd, it had already begun to disperse, leaving him standing alone. Steven went to him, put his arm around the man’s sinking, dispirited shoulders, and led him off to the stables, where they worked the rest of the morning shoveling manure and arguing philosophy, a combination that caused great mirth when Steven described it at supper that night.

The next day the winds turned colder, and the day after that came the first howling drafts that foretold the arrival of the dreadful winter storms. The men would have to go north, and soon. But first Glen must guide Ephraim and his son, the Lewis family, and whoever else wanted to go, to a fitting home in another settlement. At first the Lewis’s were torn about what to do, because Leatrice’s mother, Eva Swan, was still too feeble to travel. But as if answering their concerns with a practical solution, she passed quietly in that first windy night and was buried the next day up on the knoll with the other settlers, old and new. And so the cemetery gained another, far more peaceful resident than the other recent arrivals. The following morning the little party took their leave without the Riggs sisters, who decided in the end they didn’t want to leave their little farm.

That same evening at the Inn, in a light furnished by the generator at the mill pond dam, the community gathered to discuss when the men should leave, who among them should go, what they would take, and what (and who) must be left behind. The discussion continued until late that night and long into the next lengthening evenings weighing the options.

As they talked, more concerns surfaced, and some frank discussion ensued, some of them out of the earshot of all but the family. When Annie and Alice joined the conversation over dinner at the Keep, the talks on genetics turned to an examination of the existing and probable future human gene pool. Ellen was older than Moira, but still pre-menopausal. If civilization were to be maintained, there would simply have to be more children and every effort made to have them. Also, some elements of conventional morality around the tradition of monogamy might have to be at least temporarily put aside, and that would require discussing it in plain terms with all the villagers – especially the women.

Fearing another confrontation with those who still might be too conservative for such notions, Ellen and Moira began calling women aside quietly, both those still capable of being mothers and those who had enough experience to form a cadre of midwives. They explained what needed to be done. Quietly, in most cases at least, Moira thought with a smile, the long evenings soon became more entertaining for a good many of the community’s residents. Memories were stored that kept quite a few men and women warmer through the winter nights apart.

And children came in plenty through the following summer and early fall.

Evidently some of the same discussions took place in the northern outpost at Glen’s Cave, because several of the younger men returned in spring eager to attempt a closer association with some of the girls of their own generation. Tom Langston took up with Regina Sharp, a young black woman from the bus. Arthur Slocum began courting Rae-Jean. And Eldon Case struck up a romance with Ruthie Riggs after his own mother, Marianne, moved across the hall of the farmhouse and in with John Langston.

Late that following summer, along with several of the village’s women, Ellen had a son, named Latham, after her father. Moira, after much deliberation and worries about not doing her part, finally declined, citing the many responsibilities she had that would be jeopardized by having an infant in tow. Besides, she had adopted the orphaned toddler, Jared, who was growing fast but still a handful. Maybe next year, she said, and Ellen supported her decision. What had started as a ragged bunch of survivors was fast becoming a real, diverse, multigenerational community. This new world was at last beginning to look at its future with some confidence that there might actually be one.

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World’s End
Book One of The Seed Mother

Chapter Twelve: A Season of Beginnings

 

Looking back, Moira was grateful the meeting was over by the time Annie LeBeaux arrived on the scene, for she’d have raised enough questions and thrown in enough ideas to keep them talking all evening and into the night. But it was midday the next day before she chugged up to the gate, now always kept locked, and tooted the horn on her fabulously unique vehicle.

At some time in the past it had been a motorcycle with sidecar, Moira decided. But it had long since given up any pretensions of adhering to its previous identity. For one thing, it had a solar panel for a roof. Across the handlebars was a shelf beneath which several cords and bungees held an assortment of poles that at second glance appeared to be garden tools, several fishing rods, and possibly a harpoon, all tied together. The shelf, piled with an assortment of gadgets, extended back toward the driver and held several large pockets, pouches, and baskets into which were stuffed a bandanna, a folded topo map, binoculars, a pistol, several highway flares, a canteen, a crank-charged radio, a large jar of vitamin C pills, another of ammunition, and an iPod.

Both the cycle and sidecar were painted an astonishing number of colors, and the sidecar was packed to the gills with bundles, bags, and boxes of mysterious and unknowable stuff. The whole apparatus was towing a lawn-tractor trailer rigged to a homemade hitch, and it, too, was piled high with boxes wrapped in a tarpaulin and tightly bound.

Rick was first to greet the amazing Annie, and he sent Joey running up the hill to fetch Moira while he invited her to his patio for coffee.

“Tell me you’re not putting me on,” the woman said, her voice rasping, her shoulders suddenly straighter at the mention of the now rare beverage. She looked to be about 70-something, short, stooped, and with weathered skin, red hair going to gray, and green eyes going everywhere, darting from one new sight to another as if to memorize or to verify its reality. Her face was tanned and creased, with lines running deep, from laughter and much else it seemed. She wore a worn cotton tee and fatigue pants with many pockets. Her hands were rough as she twisted a thin cigarette from makings in a can.

“It’s the real thing and just brewed,” Rick said and laughed as she sniffed the air hungrily. “How do you take it?”

“Just coffee. Thanks. Oh, my sweet mother,” she sipped, sighed, and continued to look around her.

“Been looking for us for long?” Rick inquired softly.

Her gaze drew inward. “Long enough. I took a wrong turn up north a ways and ran into some nasty little critters.” She shook her head. “It’s good I had a gun. It’s gotten scary out there.” She said no more but sipped her coffee until Moira arrived, then leaned forward and stuck out her hand.

“You the chief?”

“More or less. I’m Moira Evans. I headed the museum, so I was a federal officer back when we had a government. No word on that lately,” she said.

“Don’t hold your breath. Annie LeBeaux here. You know a fella name of Glen Truett?”

Moira nodded. “I thought he might have pointed you our way.”

“Not because he thinks I’m cute,” Annie retorted. “I’m a biochemist by trade. I can make about anything if I’ve got the raw materials at hand. I figured you might have a use for me. It’s for pretty damn certain nobody else has.” She gestured over her shoulder at the fabulous vehicle. “I brought my kit and my library.”

Moira sized up the small woman, looked over her outfit, and liked what she saw.

“Well, Annie, if you can put up with my company, I believe I’ve got a good spot for you, one I hope you’ll find comfortable enough. It ain’t the Ritz, but the rent’s reasonable. When you finish your coffee, come on up the hill and I’ll show you around. And by the way, we don’t have any objections to churchy people, so long as they have no objections to us.” Annie grinned and shrugged, but had no comment.

On her last fumes of fuel, Annie drove up the hill to the Keep, unpacked her gear and after some discussion, installed herself at the back of the main hall, using book shelves and display cases to wall off her domain, which now included one of what had been the public restrooms. It was now being retrofitted as she began setting up her laboratory equipment. Moira stayed nearby, tidying the largely empty front hall and making sure she was on hand in case Annie needed help. But she finally called it a night long before Annie finished fashioning her abode and workspace. The few times Moira glimpsed her lean form as she went searching for a tool in the warehouse, she appeared to be plugged into her iPod and partly walking, partly dancing. She asked few questions, mostly in search of tools and supplies when needed.

Rickard stopped Moira in mid-step coming down the hill next morning to ask how the new resident was settling in.

“Well enough, I suppose,” Moira said. “She worked late. She’s now all unpacked and is well on the way to getting her lab up and running. She’s asking good questions and is pretty savvy about our needs and circumstances.“ She stopped, but kept nodding her head.

“But…?”

“But what?”

“But what aren’t you saying?”

“It’s nothing.”

“What?”

“She’s…noisy.”

“How do you mean, noisy?”

“Like…well, she sings. To her iPod?”

“So?”

“She can’t sing.”

Rickard lowered his head until he was looking at Moira over his glasses.

“I know,” she said. “Get over it.” And he nodded.

Alice, Ray and Rae-Jean Compton, the neighbors who had moved in with the Riggs sisters over the winter, had stayed on after the sisters had gone back home to work out how they might be a part of the community, from where they should live to what they had to offer. It was a long discussion and involved many meetings with various people. When Alice disclosed her skills Ellen immediately took her by the arm, led her away, and kept her several hours. Even if Alice Compton had arrived alone with just the clothes on her back, she’d have been a godsend. She had been a family nurse practitioner at the clinic in Alton and was the first real health-care professional they’d seen. The day after, while Moira was getting Annie settled up the hill, Alice was busy laying claim to the tools from the doctor’s office and moving them up the street to a two-room shop next door to Ellen’s place where she planned to install a tiny clinic.

Ray, her husband, identified himself as an Episcopal minister whose faith had been badly challenged by the events of the past few months. He exhibited all the signs of severe post traumatic stress and seldom spoke unless spoken to. Pressed, he said he no longer felt qualified to serve as a spiritual counselor, and asked to be considered based on his minimal skills as a laborer.

Eldon offered him a job as a part-time helper at the mill, but after discussion it was clear he’d be better for the present in the job he already had as a dairyman for the Riggs sisters, since he only had to show up on time for the milking. Alice said he sometimes just went missing but was usually to be found nearby, often just standing and looking at the river. His was perhaps the most visible but far from the only case of PTSD. Using Ray as a willing example, she cautioned that everyone should be careful to give each other breathing room and kindness as they made their way back to the present reality. Soon, someone thought to organize a second weekly meeting where people could come just to talk. It helped, though its efficacy was most often judged by the community members reactions when another aftershock hit, or later, when the vicious winter winds returned.

Rae-Jean, the Comptons’ teenage daughter, was a problem of a whole different order, a 16-going-on-35-year-old womanchild whose hormones were looking for somebody to show them a good time. And at Falling Spring, good times of the sort she was looking for were hard to come by. Fortunately, her mother recognized the symptoms of hormonal suffering and gave her plenty of chores to keep her occupied, mostly helping her father down at the dairy.

The Compton family was happy with the idea of working in the village but staying with the sisters, where Ray and Rae-Jean could manage the heavier work at the dairy. Alice had a good horse and with the help of Ray and Tom moved all her own medical equipment to her clinic space and hung up her shingle, complete with office hours. With pharmaceutical supplies virtually unavailable, she, Ellen, and Annie also began spending regular hours consulting together over how possible alternatives to lost medicinals might be found or made. Everyone here had experienced such emotional losses that they all suffered some damage; the wounds were mostly invisible, but all very real. Soon the three quasi-medicos were prowling the woods, meadows, and seed stores, searching for things like skullcap, arnica, boneset, and hops. There was much rejoicing when a healthy patch of St. John’s Wort, an herb used to treat depression, was found up near the cemetery. There was no cannabis, but Annie allowed as how she might have a few seeds. All the remedies for which they only had seeds were out of reach until another harvest. Until then they’d have to make do. As soon as Glen returned, he might be persuaded to go back to see if anything was left of the Alton Clinic or Ellen’s house and its stores, they decided.

To be honest, Moira was pleased about the arrival of new children not just for the benefit of having a ready-made younger generation but also for the wealth of opportunities to foist off the remainder of Sheba’s puppies, for they were driving her to distraction. Fortunately, Sheba had only had five, but having given one to Joey and another to Glen, she had three of the beggars still loitering around underfoot. She meant to make sure every arriving child had a dog until she was down to just one again.

Steven’s daughter Sarah hadn’t really settled on one pup in particular, so when Tom, Ted and Lettie arrived, Moira pounced, leaving it to them to sort out which pup went with whom. They were thrilled, but Ellen jeered at her exhibition of crass self-interest. She had to alter her view shortly after Glen returned.

As told previously, Glen finally made it back to the little valley on September 15th, just in time to help harvest the field corn. He was thinner and looked weary, as did his horse, Willy. Behind his little pack train of two heavily loaded horses, in a makeshift wagon pulled by a sturdy Welsh pony, were two young girls ages nine and eleven, Presley and Hanna Scott, whom he’d rescued from a situation bad enough he wouldn’t describe it, and a small boy, a toddler, found beside the road alone and near starvation. Piled around the children was more pillage from his search for supplies. Behind them on horseback was 40-year-old veterinarian Haley Slocum and his teenage son Arthur, who was driving a wagonload of their possessions and veterinary supplies. Others would be coming later, said Glen, as soon as they could work out transportation. He might go back for a few, he added. But first he must unload his horses and give them a good long rest.

While he did that, the first order had been to find every one of the newcomers a place to land, and they soon found their niches in the rapidly shrinking makeshift living quarters scattered around the village. Moira was delighted to see so many more young people in the group and she knew Joey would also be pleased. The Scott girls made their home down at the dairy with the Riggs and Comptons, giving Ray a sunnier attitude and Rae-Jean more to occupy her time and reflect on the consequences of having children. The Slocums took up residence in a small shed next to the barn that had been used to store surplus grain, and opened a tiny clinic focused on animal health.

The little boy was not as easy to place due to his age. He was oddly drawn to Moira, which she enjoyed. She had taken him into her arms as Alice brought him from his first medical exam and much needed bath, and had fed him crumbles of bread and small sips of milk as she tried to elicit information from him. He could talk, barely, and was politely requesting “mo behd” and “mo miik” as he swallowed each bite. She was surprised and touched at his apparent level of comfort with her, as he was smiling and patting her hand as she fed him. She must remind him of someone. How could anyone have just left him behind? But again, who knew what perils they had faced. It would remain a mystery. When asked his name, Glen thought he’d said “Jed.” But he frowned and fussed when called that. It was Ellen who tried the name Jared, and caused him to giggle and beam. He was a charmer for sure. But they had to get some weight on him. Surprising herself, Moira asked if she could keep him with her for a while and got no objections. But because of so many demands on her time, he was often shunted between Helen, Ellen, and Steven as well, and he soon assumed those four were his family.

There was a short commotion among the dogs when Glen brought out the pair of hefty Pembroke Welsh Corgi adolescent pups he’d found at a house where no one else was still alive and brought them along in his saddlebags. The male of these, a lad named Barney, stepped right up to Ellen the moment they met, sat down at her feet, met her eyes and offered a paw, plainly saying, “I’m here about the job, mum.” Her heart was lost the moment she laid eyes on him.

His mate, a bouncy little girl they named Hester, was just as firm about Sarah, finding her in the orchard reading, clambering right into her lap, heaving a great sigh, and going straight to sleep. The new girls had brought their cats with them, so for a little while, everyone was paired up except the one boy, Arthur Slocum, and he was only longing for his computer. Moira had an idea she might be able to help with that.

It was as if the entire village had gone on holiday the next day when Glen opened his packs and tossed aside the covers on the loaded wagons. Inside were utensils, tools, and canned or boxed foods and medicines, all salvaged from a farm supply and a small grocery store that had been left open but untouched, the occupants long fled. Moira swept in with Steven close behind to gather up the tools before others could help themselves. The tools and findings would be stored at the warehouse until the storehouse was ready, available for residents to borrow as needed, Moira explained. But first they needed to be marked and catalogued so they could be checked out when needed and retrieved later. Every item had to be treated as though it were irreplaceable. Because it was. She put the foodstuffs and canning supplies in Ellen’s hands, who commandeered Annie’s refueled transport to get them up to the main kitchen. While they gleaned and sorted, Glen told them where he’d been.

He could have brought a larger entourage, he said, but there were more than a few he had not told of this place. Most of the little settlements he’d found were welcoming and the residents of most seemed happy where they were. But there were also several enclaves and individuals he had avoided approaching at all, once he’d watched them from a distance. Some were in armed encampments; others were too far gone, mad with grief and fear or in other ways out of control. He had also made maps directing people looking to relocate but that he felt were incompatible with the ways of this place. Those he directed toward other fledgling villages to which they seemed more suited.

“I didn’t just leave anybody unless they were dangerous or seemed to want to be left,” he said. “But some would obviously make a better fit in other places, and I did what I could to help them find their way.”

One such place, he said, was at Van Buren on the Current river where many had survived, with residents pooling their resources and helping one another through the wild and dark winter. Those people had worked out their differences, most of them, and were growing community gardens and sharing food, led by their church leaders.

“It’s a curious mix, with lots of the more fundamentalist church influence, but they’re mostly focusing on the old-time ways and values, and there are others who lean more toward moderation and are asking their views be respected, too. They’re all working hard and working together, for the moment. No real zealots among them, or if there were any, they’ve either gone somewhere else or don’t have enough support for stirring up trouble. The ministers are working in dialogue, and the people are actually starting to thrive. They, too, are taking in lots of strays. I think there’ll be a good home there for those who prefer a more mainstream Christian community.”

The town of Poplar Bluff was mostly in ruins, but some had survived and were building back. One good sign, he said, was that the area’s community of artists had survived mostly intact and were being a good influence on the town as it grew back. Of course, they were still trying to cope with a very changed landscape. That was true almost everywhere. The social structures that would emerge were still anybody’s guess, he said, and could vary wildly from town to town. Travel between these outposts of quasi-civilization was difficult at best, as many roads were damaged or blocked and most of the bridges were down. But distances and difficulties could be seen as protection as well from some kinds of troubles.

He had not had time to explore all of this new landscape, but he said he found reason to take heart in that several small communities, a half-dozen or more, had rallied usually around some source of supplies and were at least holding their own at establishing some sort of order. But in some places more radical elements had taken charge. Some were selling a hard message of God’s wrath to gain control of what little resources were left. Others were simply taking ownership at gunpoint, creating their own kingdoms, leaving the rest to serve their new masters or starve. At some point, he said, order would need to be restored in the larger area. But not now.

“Speaking of that larger area, there’s something else you should know. The physical changes are far more vast than anyone expected, as I found when I arrived at Poplar Bluff.” He went on, describing the high bluff for which the town was named, where he had first discovered that what had been farmland was now an eastern sea. He made sure of it by tasting and finding it salty. He had seen the sea again while looking southward from a point above where the White River Valley should be, below Mountain Home. The town, though heavily damaged, was still there. But just below it, where there had been mountains, was a rolling surf pebbled with small islands as far as the eye could see. To the west there was also water as far as the eye could see, or so he had heard from people he had met on the trail, but he had no clear idea how far away that was. From the north, no one had yet come. There was only an eerie silence and a feeling of foreboding coming from that direction. Someone would have to go that way and find out the truth of the place, but that was for another day or perhaps another season.

Right now, autumn was upon them, and there were still crops to get in, and more living spaces to build. And what the next winter would bring was anyone’s guess.

“For now, I think we’ll have our hands full taking care of ourselves. That’s why I was very selective in handing out my little maps.” He grinned as he said it but there was a hard glint in his eyes. He had seen more than he was telling, Moira knew. Right now she wasn’t sure she wanted to know more. Tend to the home place, then deal with the rest, she told herself, and look to the tasks at hand. And so the days passed.

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World’s End
Book One of The Seed Mother

Chapter Eleven: Making Room

Within a week after the Langstons arrived, more people, livestock, and even house pets began to trickle in, and as Ellen had predicted, room had to be made and plans altered again and again.

With the arrival of help and more temperate weather, Moira rescinded her decision to free all the livestock, and everyone but the young colts seemed relieved to be back in their pens. The poultry had been especially hard hit by predation and the village was down to just three hens and a single rooster, plus a single hen turkey from each of the turkey breeds and no rooster from either. But each of those turkey hens had apparently mated, both with their absent mates and evidently with a wild turkey male as well, for after they were penned, they nested and began producing some very odd-looking chicks along with some who looked quite ordinary. A mystery but not one they’d question, since the flock was now up from two to sixteen. The chickens had also been busy, each hatching out a brood of half a dozen or more. Not all of those lived, of course, but the chickens from the original flock numbered well over a dozen now, and the birds would likely nest again before fall. In addition, a motley little flock of four migrant chickens, including a brown leghorn hen, two bantam hens, and a bantam cross rooster, all of them ragged and some injured, stumbled into the village late one day, the rooster answering the call of the resident male. After some introductory tussles, they were welcomed into the flock, and the gene pool was further enhanced.

Likewise, a pregnant Holstein cow, then two Angus heifers and a bull calf, and then six rangy beef cattle of questionable lineage showed up at the lower gate, plainly asking for shelter and a little graze. They, too, showed signs of being worried by some kind of predatory animal and so were let into the gate of the harvested oat field and contented themselves tidying things up. Most of the Tamworth hogs returned, followed by a meek little Berkshire gilt, all of them polite and looking for a little corn. They trotted merrily into their enclosure, following a rattling grain can, and soon were happily settled.

One morning when she left her apartment, a small gray cat with golden eyes was sitting at Moira’s door. She warned it about the dogs but it marched inside, stood all its hairs on end, smartly slapped each puppy on the nose as it approached, wove its way around Sheba’s legs and purred, and made itself at home. Moira saw it was a girl and named it Stella. So, slowly but steadily, the village began to fill.

The arriving humans, with few exceptions, seemed to have been selected and sent by Glen. Most of them showed up holding hand-drawn maps on scraps of paper, and most seemed to understand the still unwritten rules of order. By the time Glen himself finally came home, he’d sent more than a dozen on ahead. In addition to their personal effects, each of them brought items of food, tools, medical supplies, reference books, and other salvaged and irreplaceable commodities from the world outside, and each presented those things as their entry fee. Each seemed eager to declare an open mind and religious tolerance among their qualifications for admittance. Obviously Glen had given them a talking to before drawing his maps. With every arrival, new skills and talents came with them.

First down the lower road by the river came Toby Stoffer, an organic farmer and orchardist who was carrying with him bundles of fruit tree scions he’d salvaged from the wreckage of his nursery, and Rickard Mills, his husband, a landscape designer. The two of them arrived with some fanfare on a noisy all-terrain vehicle pulling a trailer. On it in addition to the tiny trees were tools, boxes and bags tightly packed, several jerry-cans of fuel, and a Maine coon cat named Edna. Edna immediately set to work in the barn. Rickard applied for a job.
”I recognize that my profession has gone extinct, darling,” he told Moira. “I’ll work at anything you’d like me to do. But I hope you don’t mind if I pretty things up a bit as I go along.”

“I think you’ll both be as happy here as we are happy to have you,” Moira said, and then, realizing her choice of words could be taken two ways, added, “I’m delighted you’re here. This place could use a facelift and we can certainly use the extra hands. You’ll have all the work you want.” The men chose as their residence the lower shed just up from the gate, once used for storing landscaping equipment. Those items were moved, with some reverence on the part of Rickard, to a larger open-fronted shed opposite the gate, and the former landscaping shed soon acquired a patio, a tiny kitchen, and an outdoor grill. Before long, it became a popular after-work destination for many village residents.

Toby offered himself as Ellen’s assistant in the garden and Rickard was soon put to work refitting the “demonstration” shops of the village as living quarters and some real shops. Evenings he spent digging, planting, pruning, and “prettying” the extensive grounds. Soon Ellen handed over the food gardens and a growing orchard to Toby and devoted herself entirely to the medicinal herbs, and Rickard’s designs went far beyond prettying. Within days, he began approaching Moira with drawings he’d made on a small sketch pad filled with ideas for expanding the food gardens, developing more home sites, and creating planned public areas. As for the structure of the village’s common area including Main Street, he said, all that was lacking was sufficient people to run the shops. That, he predicted, would in all likelihood, take care of itself. And it did.

Next to arrive was Eldon Case, a 40-year-old farmer from just up the river from the Langston farm. He’d survived the winter but had watched his wife and father succumb to the cold and dark and terror that the nightmare changes had brought. He came in riding a tall bay mule, leading a donkey packed with his belongings, and driving before him a Jersey cow and calf. Riding behind him on the mule was his mother, Marianne Case. Running alongside and helping guide the cattle was a little cattle dog answering to “Burt.”

A little behind them that day came a lone woman driving a horse before a small buckboard wagon loaded with unknown items under a tarp. Her progress was tentative and Moira wondered why – until she recognized her.

“Oh my God it’s Helen!” she exclaimed, and went racing down the road, startling the Cases’ animals. “Sorry,” she called as she slowed so as not to startle the horse next in line. “Oh, Helen, I’m so glad you’re alive. I had so hoped that someone from the staff was out there and would eventually come in. Steven’s here.” As Helen pulled the wagon to a stop, Moira climbed aboard and threw her arms around the older woman. Helen Walker had been the manager and chief cook for the museum’s demonstration kitchen, had gone off with the rest for the Thanksgiving holiday and had never returned – until now.

Moira took Helen’s hand in both of hers and said “How are you? Really.”

“Well, we had a tight house and enough to eat and we just holed up and waited for the storm to pass,” Helen said. We only live about five miles away, but we were afraid to come down here, afraid of what we’d find and afraid we couldn’t get here and back. The bridge up there is out, you know. Then Nathan took sick about a month back, and, well, your man got there just about in time to help me bury him. He said you were OK and you’d have room for me. I sure hope you do.”

Moira gave her hand a shake. “Are you kidding? I’d take you in if I had to throw somebody else out. Now come on, let’s get you inside and get somebody to tend to your horse. We’ll get the wagon unloaded when we’ve settled on where to put you.”

Meanwhile, Toby and Steven were quizzing Eldon. Soon they knew he had grown up on his family’s farm but had worked in town as a welder, carpenter, and sometimes mechanic, and he had an abundance of manual skills to offer. He was at once befriended by Steven and offered charge of the tool room at the Center. He made his living quarters in the smaller of the barn’s two tack rooms and took his meals with the Langstons. Mrs. Case settled in one of the farmhouse’s upstairs bedrooms and offered to help in the kitchen and garden, although she soon began eyeing one of the little shops and mentioned she was a competent seamstress. When Ellen told her of the stored bolts of cloth, she began planning her new career. She and John Langston became immediate friends when Marianne confessed she played piano and John began to acquaint her with his small squeeze box accordion. Helen moved into the space up the hill that had been the dressing room for the performers, right next door to her beloved kitchen. The small population had already been eating Helen’s cooking from the meals stored in the freezer, but they soon discovered the fresh version was even better.

Learning of potential resources awaiting them at the abandoned farms upriver, Rick and Toby spent a can of their precious fuel on multiple trips hauling tools, materials, and supplies back to the village. Moira made sure they were both armed, but apparently the noise of the little four-wheeler was enough to keep the feral and vicious “wee little piggies” at bay.

Two days from the opposite direction down the road came the two Riggs sisters, 49-year-old Reatha and 40-year-old Ruthie, whose farm was downriver. They had not been sent by Glen. They had been living on their parents’ farm downstream from the Park for several years but had kept to themselves. They had dared the trip upriver after hearing, faintly, the noise from Toby and Rick’s ATV. It was the first human-made sound they’d heard since the “Changes,” they said, and they were afraid it might be the last. They’d come in a small, two-wheeled horse-drawn cart, saying they’d left all their worldly belongings behind in the care of the neighbors who’d joined them over the winter and who had stayed behind to do the milking. They could go fetch them if they could all please stay, they pleaded with tremulous voices, offering up their list of useful skills. They were schoolteachers but also dairy farmers, cheese-makers, and beekeepers, they said. They could, with help, bring with them as many as a dozen hives and ten head of Guernsey cattle, all good milkers. It was almost too good a gift and would strain the ability of the existing facilities both to house and to feed just the animals, not to mention another batch of new two-legged arrivals to consider as well, including that other family yet unseen. It was time to consider a larger plan.

Moira asked the sisters to return home and bring everyone back the next day right after the morning milking so all could attend a town meeting. She proposed a discussion to work out the details of how this larger village might proceed. The sisters happily agreed, and were invited to stay for lunch and beyond to meet the rest of the village residents before returning home. Tom and Toby on horseback escorted them back to their farm and returned home just before full dark.

The meeting was set for 10 a.m., but preparations had been underway since dawn, when Ellen, Helen, and Marianne began work next door in the kitchen, turning the regular morning meal into a brunch-style buffet more suited to the gathering. Moira also enlisted Steven and Tom to make some adjustments to the room that had been the museum’s theater. The addition of a long folding table down front with chairs behind it where the village’s unofficial leaders would sit made the space perfect for the meeting. They had also added, at Ellen’s suggestion, another long table at the back to hold all that food and drink. The theater at the former visitors’ center, which could seat up to 120 people, had seemed too large, but was still the best site for this meeting, as it was comfortable, and everyone could be seen and heard.

As the meeting time approached, people began strolling up the hill in what was becoming a festive mood. Steven’s daughter Sarah had recovered her strength enough that she and Joey were now looking after Ted Langston, who was still weak and was having a hard time building back his strength. As the meeting approached, and with help from Eldon, they hitched one of the trained Morgan mares to a flat-bedded farm wagon, enlisted “Grandpa John” Langston as wagon master, and offered a ride up the hill for Ted and anyone else who wished it. Ted hesitated, then agreed to ride and keep his grandfather company. The Riggs sisters said they’d like a wagon ride, too. Toby and Rick, who had already started up the hill, came walking up alongside the shy Lettie, the girl who’d taken refuge with the Langstons. Each of the men took an arm, and walked with her up the hill, chatting quietly in the bright morning, as the sun filled the shaded upper hollow. Above them, they could hear children laughing. Tom Langston and his mother were walking quietly behind them.

“You know,” said Toby, “if this is going to be the end of the world, I think we could have done a whole lot worse, don’t you?” He gave Lettie’s arm a squeeze. He’d heard the story of the loss of her family and was careful not to be flippant. 
She smiled a small smile, then took a deep breath and seemed to breathe in the beauty of the day. Her smile grew larger. “It could be worse,” she agreed.

As others began to file into the center and find the theater, Rick pulled Moira aside and pressed for a serious discussion of setting up an ongoing and regular schedule of meetings where residents could be informed and educated and have input into how the growing village should be organized. She agreed to bring it up, but she said Rick would have to be in charge of presenting suggestions for a plan. He pulled out his notebook.

“I don’t suppose you’d have a larger piece of paper?” he said. He had changed from his usual jeans and landscaper’s apron and was wearing a thin cotton shirt and dove gray slacks. His graying blond hair was tied back at the neck. He looked every inch the landscape designer.
She directed him to the conference room where a presentation pad and easel were stored.

As he hurried away, Ellen, Helen and Marianne came parading up to the theater entrance carrying large trays of pastries and other finger foods which they arranged on the table at the back next to pitchers of iced herb tea, flasks of coffee and a random assortment of glasses and cups. People continued to stream in, and soon all were gathered, sipping and nibbling as the discussion began.

The first suggestion was that they find a suitable name for this structure they were in other than Visitors Center, and designate the theater as the town hall. But what should the entire facility be called? Joey raised his hand.“Why don’t we just call it the Keep, because that’s where you keep everything important?”

Everyone agreed it was short and descriptive enough, and the name was adopted without further conversation. Moira, who had assigned herself as host of the first meeting and was determined to keep her input to a minimum, shook her head as she served coffee to the small group, muttering something about how she hoped everyone realized that this made her the keeper.

Next, Rick arrived, set up the easel, and began to sketch out a plan using a dark marker. He began to explain his plan for how the village should be developed over time.

“We’re barely even a villagette here, Rick, not a real village,” Moira said in protest, but he pressed his point.

“Not yet, we’re not, but the more who arrive, the less there’ll be opportunity for changes. We don’t have enough room in this hollow to just let it grow like Topsy. We need an organized plan to make the best use of the space,” he insisted. “We already need a school. And soon we’ll need to add a church or two, I expect. And a community center, and an Inn, or at least a hostel, and…” She nodded, waved a hand in surrender, and agreed. From now on, she said, she would host weekly meetings here, where everyone could have a seat and a say, and everyone could voice their concerns and ideas, and listen to the concerns of others.

Realizing this meeting and the ones going forward would need some structure, Moira asked for items to go on an agenda, and nearly everyone had something to add. Clearly, people had been thinking about the future. Rick was still adding to his drawing, so she asked if he would yield the floor temporarily so other business could be taken up. He held up his hand with the marker to show he’d heard her, then continued drawing.

Eldon was first to speak but he had obviously been talking to Rick.

He stood and removed his green feed cap, revealing the tan line that stopped halfway up his forehead – a farmer’s tan. “Since it looks like we’re all gonna be here a while…” He paused, waiting for someone to disagree, but no one did. “…and I expect we’ll see some more show up before long…” Everyone nodded, so he went on. “We’d better be tryin’ to get as ready as we can, and as soon as we can. We’re sure not ready now, even though this place as it stands is a real blessing. But we’re going to need more rooms, more places under roof, more food, more …” he stopped, looking for the word.

“Structure,” said Steven, and Eldon nodded. Rick looked pointedly at Moira, who acknowledged him with a wry grin.

“I’m not saying I’m the one to do that, at least the planning part,” Eldon continued. “Now I can build things or take them apart. I know how things go together. But I’m not one to know where to put them. Lord, if you could see my place…” he looked at his mother, and tears sprang to his eyes. Then he turned to Rick. “I know you all did some foraging up there, and that’s fine. But you didn’t make a dent in what’s there. What I’m saying is, I’ve got lumber put away, and tools, and some more food stored, not much but some. We could take a crew and a couple wagons back up there, cause then I can build you some more little houses. And I think you ought to let me have the wood shop at the mill. I can get the wheel going and use that to get the saw going, and then we can make our own lumber. I think we’re gonna need all we can make.” He looked around. “That’s all I’ve got to say.”

Steven raised a hand, and Moira nodded to him.

“He’s right on all counts. We can’t do it all at once, of course, but I’ll be happy to work on that with Eldon, and I think he’s the logical one to take on things at the mill.” He turned to the man, who had taken his seat and put his cap back on. “I don’t mean we expect you to do it by yourself. We’ll get you some help down there every time we can.” He suddenly remembered himself and quickly turned to Moira. “That is, if that’s all right.”

“Let’s don’t stand on ceremony here,” Moira said. “If that’s what works, let’s do it. But I want to hear more of what Rick has to say about structure before we go much farther.” She turned to him, and he rose from his seat on the end of the front row. He had finished drawing and sat down to wait his turn. He looked suddenly young and almost elegant, Moira thought.

“Hello, dears,” he said, stepping back to the easel. He folded back the sheet where he’d been drawing to reveal an enlarged aerial photo of the museum grounds that he’d found in the conference room. “Forgive me, I’m such a ditherer, I just can’t work without visual aids, or I’ll just blather on and confuse everyone. I hope you don’t mind.” He nodded and rubbed his hands together as his audience mumbled what he took to be assent.

“Well,” he said, picking up a long wooden pointer. “Here is what we have now. And here is what I propose we do with it.” He turned the page back, to let them see the sketch again, then turned back to the photo.

“Let me explain,” he said, and everyone nodded. “Here at the mill dam is our electric power source. It’s limited, so it will have to be used judiciously. Maybe street lights, but that’s about all. So things that need to operate off that power – small industry, perhaps – will need to locate there, or nearby. Doesn’t have to be big, doesn’t have to be dirty. In fact, we shouldn’t allow it to be dirty.” He moved the pointer’s end across the pond to the mill itself.

“Now here’s our mechanical power source. It, too, could be retrofitted to produce some small bits of electricity. But the belts that run directly off the wheel will drive the sawmill and the cotton gin and some woodworking tools. All that in good time.”

The pointer moved again.

“Now, here we are down at the farmstead. We will need more housing immediately, yes. But as people work out where they want to live and what they want to do about that, they may well want to put their own houses in a location that suits them. What we need is somewhere to put the newcomers in the meantime. Because I’m nearly sure more are coming. I propose we take the old log building next to the mill that was the general store in pioneer times, and turn it into a distribution point for general stores, like nails and hand tools and such, that everyone will need and that we’ll need to keep track of. It needs a little work, but it’s a sound structure and we need a place in a central location to put things we use frequently. We can’t just go to the hardware store if we lose something. And we shouldn’t have to walk all the way up the hill to fetch a nail. We should probably move the smithy up here, too, so the means for making and repairing tools would be nearby.”

At that, Steven nodded. “Works for me,” he said

Then Rick pointed to the shops on the little street. “Now let’s look at downtown,” he said.

“This rather oversize building here, the one that’s almost finished.” He pointed to a spot on the map. “It was intended to be the general store. It’s perfect, but not for a grocery store. It’s a two-story structure, very sturdy. Now just imagine. If we were to put in some partitions, several upstairs and a few down, we could easily turn it into an inn for those newcomers who aren’t sure if they’ll stay or are just passing through, or we don’t have anywhere else to put them. And later, for those who want to stay and haven’t built yet, or can’t yet, the next thing to build would be a boarding house, or a bunkhouse, which we can put here, just down from the farmhouse to house single people, temporary workers or the like. That should get us through the next little while and use up what lumber we can get hold of. The shops downtown, we should only use to bed down people temporarily, because we’ll want actual businesses in there, as tradespeople become necessary.”

At that, Marianne Case’s hand went into the air. “Speaking of trades,” she said, “I know I’m out of turn, but if I had a sewing machine, I could use one of those to set up a shop to make clothing for people. Would you all be interested in that?”

Several nodded agreement and the crowd began talking together.

“Great idea. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Rick cautioned, pointing back to his drawing. “That’s wonderful, Marianne, and I think we’re going to find that kind of business very necessary and very soon. I think everyone who wants to try out a small business should just do it. With the understanding that for the foreseeable, it’s all going to be on the barter system, with all of us working as hard as we can and helping each other, just to get enough to keep us all.

“But I want you to look at this other drawing and consider how I’ve laid out these other, future parts. I wanted to allow for areas to be used as we need them, how we need them. I want you all to think about all this and tell me what you think works and what doesn’t. For instance.” He pulled a pencil from his pocket and made X marks on the map. “All these crosshatched areas should be converted into food gardens – not right this minute, but as soon as possible. Why? Because the soil here is very productive bottomland, it’s below the millpond so it will always have water, and it is close to all of us so we can pitch in when needed and give the crops the attention they need. We will likely not be having any lettuce trucked in from California very soon” His voice rang in the sudden silence. “Everything we eat we will have to grow or forage for. Fortunately, Moira has seeds for just about everything. But the distance between seeds and food is marked by toil and sweat. We should start immediately if we want to be getting fall crops in.”

Steven asked to speak next, and what he said was a surprise.

“ I want to take up the matter of these newcomers and their farm now. I think this is the right place for it, while we’re discussing plans for the overall village. Because I have another thought on what to do about the sisters’ offer of their stock and the beehives. They’re offering to bring all their worldly goods and move off their farm. But it’s a pretty darn good farm, and it’s closer to us than we may have thought. There’s just a great big hill between us. But in the shape it’s in, with its good barns and its milking parlor and its well-built home, their place is exceptionally well equipped. I’ve been looking at maps of the area, and the sisters’ land actually abuts the park at a point just around the river bend. I’m wondering if the sisters might want to just stay where they are now that they know they have neighbors who can offer help in need. We could even extend the perimeter fence to enclose both places within the village. There are some nice house sites over there facing the river, and some good pasturage, and we can hold the area between for small industry as it develops. We’d leave the fields in place, and clear some more areas of bottomland as needed to add to our cropland. Even with the livestock we have now, we’ll soon need more forage. And they have a regular dairy already set up down there. They can even make cheese.” At this a cheer went up and the level of enthusiasm rose markedly.

Reatha was beaming and Ruthie began to cry openly.

“I was so hating the thought of moving,” Ruthie said. “Our family has had that place for four generations. But we just didn’t want to be alone anymore. Yes, yes. Of course we’ll stay.”

To that end, Steven asked Eldon to first help build another buckboard wagon so the sisters could travel to and from their farm to run the projected school, and then, with the help of Rickard, to begin designing that school.

By this time Moira’s smile had widened until she thought it might crack her face wide open. She set down her agenda and just let people talk, and by the afternoon’s end the village was officially named Falling Spring, Marianne Case had a clothing and “notions” shop on Main Street, Nancy Langston revealed her talent as a weaver and asked for the shop next to Marianne to set up her loom to eventually produce cloth for Marianne’s use. Best of all, Grandpa John Langston had asked for help in clearing the last of the threshed oats from the broad threshing floor in the middle of the large barn, and to get it done before the next Saturday. Then he invited them all to a dance.

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World’s End
Book One of The Seed Mother

Chapter Ten: Combing the Wreckage

They did not see Glen’s face again until August, when he rode in casually on a sunny afternoon, looking tired and bringing with him the two pack horses loaded down with badly needed supplies including the promised canning jars and lids, and his dog, near full grown and looking scruffy from the trail. The jars arrived just in time for the tomato harvest, and to make pickles. And soon there would be apple butter.

But they had news of him much sooner. First a pair of teenagers arrived by canoe one morning not even a week after he had left, begging shelter for themselves and others from upriver. Glen had found them and given directions to Falling Spring before moving on, they said.
They brought with them a sad winter’s tale that was to grow all too familiar as the summer wore on.

“We couldn’t get warm, and there wasn’t enough food to go around,” said Tom Langston, a lad of about 16. “We didn’t have wood heat in the house. It was all-electric, so when the electric went off, we had to move out to dad’s shop where there was a wood stove. But there wasn’t room for everyone, and not nearly enough wood. We didn’t turn anyone away, but we just couldn’t keep everybody warm. We cut wood every day that we could get out and butchered all the livestock. We about hunted every squirrel and rabbit out of the brush, but when even more people started coming in, we couldn’t keep up and there just wasn’t ever enough to eat.”

Their neighbors had come seeking help when their food ran out, he said, and they had all tried to pitch in and help however they could. But in all, only five had survived the winter, including their mother, grandfather, and a girl from a neighboring farm. The girl’s parents, a brother, and an aunt had all been starving when they arrived, and none but the girl had ever rallied. They had also lost their own father when the fierce wind blew a limb down on him, and a younger sister had developed an illness they didn’t know how to treat. In all, six had perished. They knew of the museum’s existence but had never been there, and had no idea anyone, or any supplies, might be there.

The boys were both trying to talk at once and Ellen stopped them when the younger boy started to cry. She brought them into the farmhouse and fed them on cornbread and milk and fresh blackberry pie. Then she made Ted, the younger boy, lie down and sleep before he said more about their story. The oldest, though, was nearly frantic to return up the river to fetch the rest of his family.

It was Moira who accompanied Tom on the trip back upriver. Ted wanted to go but was clearly too malnourished and ill. Tom wasn’t in top shape but insisted he was strong enough, and he proved to be. Fortunately, the weather was settled and the current was smooth for the four-mile trip upstream. Not all could be brought down in one trip, so first to be transported was the grandfather, John Langston, who was elderly but spry and who would not leave if it meant being parted from his collection of musical instruments and the family’s personal possessions, mostly clothing and keepsakes. To the family’s surprise, Moira wholeheartedly concurred with Mr. Langston’s decision, and so the instruments – two guitars, a banjo, two fiddles, mountain dulcimer and what appeared to be some kind of button accordion – were packed carefully around him in the first canoe, along with personal items of his including some small tools. He rode in front while Tom paddled and steered from the rear seat. Moira, in the second canoe, hauled more tools, luggage, a store of quilts and blankets, and small family treasures. Tom’s mother and the neighbor girl stayed behind to pack the rest of the family’s belongings and household items that would be useful in their new home. Moira noted that no one wanted to stay behind alone and decided there was probably more of their story than had yet been revealed.

“Now, see that y’ don’t go and spill me, Thomas,” the old man scolded, obviously enjoying himself. “You’ve got over 200 years of history packed in here with y’.”

“And how old would the instruments be, then?” Moira asked innocently, a twinkle in her eye.

The old man gave a whoop of laughter. “You watch y’rself too, Missy,” he said, seeing how tightly packed was Moira’s canoe with the family’s goods.

On the return trip down the river the old man spoke quietly to Moira of the family’s trials and the hardships faced by the young people. It had been hard for them all to endure, and hard for him to watch.

“We old ones expect to face hard times,” he said. “But to start with such a burden, so young…”

“It’s never too early to learn courage,” Moira said. “And I’m afraid they’re going to need all they can find of it in this hard world we’ve inherited.”

He nodded and said, “it’s a different world, for sure,” then was silent.

It was mid-afternoon when they reached the ford below the village, but Ted and Joey had been waiting and watching for them by the stream side. Joey set off at a run to get Steven, who was already jogging down the slope with a wheelbarrow to carry the baggage and instruments.

Steven hurried to help the old man up the road to the farmhouse, calling over his shoulder, “We’ll come back and get the rest. Do what you need to.”

Moira turned to Tom, whose hands were trembling as they unloaded the rest of the gear.

“What say? Are you up for another run today, or should we wait ’til tomorrow morning?”

Tom was already shaking his head. “I can’t … I don’t want to leave them up there alone another night,” he said. “There are things, bad things, out there in the woods, and if we’re not there…”

His breath was getting shorter as he spoke and Moira put a hand on his arm, seeing the signs of panic.

“Whoa, Tom. Bad things. What do you mean?”

“Wild dogs or somethin’, and somethin’ worse, like a pack of pigs, only really vicious, really … crazy. A bunch of them carried off the last of Lettie’s goats yesterday, if you can believe that. It was awful. I think they’d have come after us but they saw we had a gun. We’ve thought for a while they been watchin’ us.”

“Pigs in a pack, stalking people?” Moira said, incredulous. Then she thought of the surly Ossabaw boars who’d run away. It was just possible, she guessed.

“Well, all right. Let’s grab a bite to take with us, and we’ll go and stay the night, and bring the others back tomorrow.”

Tired as they both were, they ate quickly as Ellen packed up supper for the party, then paddled hard, urged on by an increasingly agitated Tom. They arrived back at the Langston farm just at dusk. Tom’s mother Nancy, who had been watching for them from inside the small cabin that had served as workshop and then shelter, ran to meet them, brandishing an electric lantern Moira had left behind on the first trip. As soon as they’d pulled the canoes far up the bank, she beckoned them hurriedly inside and bolted the door behind them. She looked frightened.

“I didn’t know whether to hope you’d come back or hope you stayed away somewhere safe,” she said to Tom. “Those pigs are back. I saw one of them prowling at the edge of the yard a while ago, and now there are more. I don’t know what they’re up to but I don’t think we should go outside anymore tonight.” Tom nodded.

Moira looked around the room. Lettie, the neighbor girl, was sitting in the corner, her arms wrapped around herself as if she were cold, although the night was balmy. Thin to the point of emaciation, with dark hair and pale blue eyes, she looked to be about 16, about the same age as Tom. She looked terrified.

The cabin was a single sizable room about 20 feet on a side, with windows on three sides. On the fourth was a lean-to addition holding a small bathroom, mudroom, and pantry. Along one wall were makeshift bunks and rolled-up bedding. A trestle table occupied the center of the room; a kerosene lamp, fuel for which she must remember to ask about, was lighting the room from the middle of the table. All the windows were open, for there was a fire in the woodstove and a pot of water for coffee was steaming. Moira handed Mrs. Langston the bag of food and soon a hearty, precooked stew from the commercial kitchen at the park was simmering as well.

Behind the door, Moira noted, more luggage and belongings had been packed into bundles. It would be difficult to carry both passengers with all those belongings. Surely the boys, or she and Steven, could make another trip later to retrieve more things from the farm. She wondered how she would broach the subject. Time enough for that later, she decided. She asked if perhaps Mrs. Langston had some spare canning jars, which prodded a nervous laugh from the woman.

“Spare? Just about everything we’ve got is to spare now that we’re getting out of here. We have lots of things that might be useful in a place where we’re safe. Maybe we can send the men back up later. But now I just want to get us all out of here alive.” She turned to the stove and bade them sit at the table, for the food was ready. She began to dip up the savory stew into bowls.

Moira started to say something, she never afterward knew what, when suddenly a dreadful commotion began, with squealing, banging, thumping, and a cacophonous rumble of small sharp hooves scratching and scrambling onto the porch, and large, heavy bodies rooting and bumping into the house. The pigs, it appeared, were attacking the building – at which moment several things happened at once.

Tom raced to the room’s corner and grabbed up a rifle. Lettie put her hands to her face and screamed. Mrs. Langston dropped the ladle into the stew with a cry. A terrible crash made the door shudder and a horrible, huge porcine face heaved itself through the window next to the door, ripping the screen and framing its face in a hideous parody of portraiture. Without thinking, Moira whipped the Ruger from her hip and fired three rounds straight into its mouth. Another scream, this one not human, was cut short as the body crashed backward onto the porch floor and the face disappeared. The roar of the gun inside the small room was deafening but when the noise died, they realized that everything outside had also gone quiet. The silence was soon broken by several soft grunts as the pigs appeared to discuss the situation.

Then they heard the tiptoe of many small hooves as the animals exited the porch and walked down the path into the woods, continuing to grunt among themselves, sounding disappointed. For a long moment, no one moved or spoke. Then Tom stepped to the door and looked out.

“They’ve all gone. ‘Cept for the one, of course. Guess they had all they wanted of us,” he added as he stepped back in and closed the door, grinning at Moira as she re-holstered her gun.

“Well,” Moira said as they looked at her in wonderment. She took a deep, not altogether steady breath. “Let’s eat, shall we?”

In truth, no one was more unnerved than she at the notion that the Ossabaw hogs might be the seed stock that had spawned these violent predators. But it wouldn’t do to scare everyone any more than they already were by speculating aloud. She forced her hand to be calm as she picked up her spoon. The stew was quite good, after all. And Mrs. Langston had fried thin corn cakes on the stove top to go with it. They talked quietly, listening between bites, but the forest remained quiet.

They took turns keeping a watch for the rest of the night but there was no more commotion. When morning came, it took all four of them to drag the massive hog carcass down to the river away from the farmstead. After some discussion, they decided to leave it there for scavengers, whether its own kind or others.

They wedged Tom into the rear of one canoe, bundles packed tightly around him from the stern to where Lettie was sitting up front wrapped in a shawl. Moira and Betty Langston shared the second canoe with a small mountain of other goods and set off, leaving the farm to wait for more harvesters to return later, if ever. The return trip was uneventful, though more than once they had the sense of someone or something watching them from the riverbanks.

When they arrived back at the center, Moira was greeted by another surprise. In her absence, Ellen had moved all her belongings out of the farmhouse and into the small, tidy milliner’s shop at the upper end of the village’s street of shops. Those buildings, meant only for summer programs at the park, were of single-wall construction, unheated and without insulation. But when Moira tried to protest, she got no further than the phrase “demonstration village.”

“Cancel the demonstration, honey. We’re about to become the real thing. And I’m about to be the village herbalist,” Ellen said with a wide smile. “Step into my parlor.” She waved Moira into the back room, where she had installed a tiny wood stove, a desk, an armchair and an iron single bedstead salvaged from items donated to the museum and stored in the barn. In the front room was a countertop ready for a small display and a work table with jars and bottles ready to be filled with salves, ointments, and tinctures. By the door stood two crates containing the shop’s former furnishings.

“It’s logical,” she pointed out over Moira’s protests. “We have acquired an actual family that needs housing and they’ll need nearly every bit of that farmhouse. In fact, there’s nowhere else to put them. With any luck, we’re going to be badly overcrowded very soon, and we’re going to have a lot of these kinds of problems to solve. I thought I might as well get a jump on it before all the spaces were taken.” She was leaning back against the door frame of her new abode, a scarf around her head, forehead damp with perspiration and eyes filled with pride. Then she looked at Moira and her eyes softened.

“You thought I might come up there on the hill with you, didn’t you? Honey, there’s no room for me up there, not yet. That place needs to be gone through and thoroughly repurposed before it can be put to any good use in this world we’re living in now. And then it’ll be a headquarters, not a home. That’s for you to work through and nobody else. After all, you’re in charge. You’re the boss lady, and it needs to stay that way. You better just stay up there so everybody remembers that, because every once in a while you’re gonna have to remind them. I’ll stay down here and keep the locals whipped in line. Between us, we’ll have ’em surrounded,” she said, laughing away the hurt in Moira’s eyes. Her words soon turned out to be prophetic in ways they could not have foreseen.

First, though, the Langstons needed help setting up the farmstead as their family home. Fortunately the house included a “birthing room,” a parlor, a pair of storage rooms, and a large walk-in closet in addition to its four furnished upstairs bedrooms. There were also stairs leading to a finished attic. So the home could be made to house many more residents in a pinch, assuming they were compatible. Tom returned to their former home one more time with two canoes and a very nervous Steven, and brought back all the furniture, bedding and useful items they could carry. With those additions, they were able to furnish rooms for all family members as well as outfit the farmhouse kitchen with a number of useful tools. That week passed quietly as people began finding their own little nests and collecting small items to make theirs a personal space. The main meal of the day continued to be prepared at the kitchen up the hill, gradually emptying the still loaded freezers. And the gardens were beginning to produce vegetables enough for everyone and more, and the canning jars, including more found in a shed and those retrieved from the Langston farm, were filled methodically, the work of many hands. The earth movements had gradually become smaller and less frequent, and life began to take on the semblance of a kind of order.

But no one trusted that it would last, and just as they began to relax, another group showed up, and then another. It seemed that as soon as the little village began taking on what seemed to be a stable form, more changes were required. While some were annoyed, others craved the interruptions, as it left them less room to dwell on the world left behind. And so the days of summer passed.

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World’s End
Book One of The Seed Mother

Chapter Nine: Assembling A Family

Glen settled into the rhythm of farm life like he’d been born to it. By the time he’d been there a week, they’d all assessed each other, and found themselves comfortable with the change. The family, for family it was beginning to appear, met each day at the farmhouse for breakfast to discuss plans for the day’s work. With Glen sawing and Joey stacking, they cut a great number of branches from the hollow’s blown-down trees into firewood lengths against the needs of an unknown future. Then Glen and Moira harnessed the gentle Percherons and snaked the larger lengths of oak, ash, walnut, hickory, and pine down the slopes and to the large pole barn next to the mill where the woodright’s raw stock was stored.

While that work was underway, Ellen put herself in charge of the daily farm chores, including garden and pens, and made sure the meals were plentiful and on time. One rainy day she left a meal of sandwiches and potato salad in the cooler for the others and journeyed up the hill to the commercial kitchen in Moira’s fortress home, where she took inventory of all their food stocks, including canned and frozen foods.

The report she delivered along with dinner was comforting at first, but became less so with the telling.

“We’ve got plenty of everything for now,” she said. “In fact, we’re pretty well supplied for the next couple of years with canned vegetables, fruits, and the like. But that’s where it begins to fall apart, because by that point we’ll have to replenish those stocks. Our supply of canning jars is laughably small, not to mention jar lids. I found just two cases of quarts and a single case of pint jars, each with a single set of lids and flats. Without more flats, those lids are not re-useable.”

“That may not be the entire store,” Moira said. “I’ll check the cellar and smokehouse. Helen may have put some away closer at hand to the farmhouse kitchen.”

“I’d have checked them already, but they’re padlocked,” Ellen said, and Moira grimaced.

“My fault. Sorry. What else did you find up there?”

“There’s still half a freezer-full of pre-cooked food, I guess made for the demonstration kitchen. But we’d better make a point of using it up because it’s beginning to show some freezer burn. Also, I saw we’re down to about our last four hundred pounds of baking soda. Whoever placed that order has kept us in biscuits for the next hundred years, provided the flour holds out. Speaking of which,” she paused and looked across to Moira, then at Glen. “If we don’t get that wheat crop out and some corn put in soon, we’ll have no biscuits nor any cornbread next year. In fact, I’m not sure the flour we have will hold out that long. I checked the wheat bins up at the mill, and they’re nearly empty. Have you all thought about what you’ll do on that end? I imagine it’s not much better in the granary.”

Glen cleared his throat and began, “I’d been meaning to mention it, but we’ve been going so hard I put it aside. You know we’ve got those two fields down by the river that are planted to winter wheat and oats. They’ve been grazed some, but there’s plenty left. If we don’t get any more rain this week, I should be able to get in there with a mower. But we don’t have a grain combine. I guess the guys here just harvested by hand.”

Moria nodded. “Scythe and cradle. It’s tedious, but you don’t lose anything that way.

Glen was silent, considering the idea. “The fields look to be about ten acres each. It’d take us two or three days apiece, at least.”

“But we wouldn’t have to wait so long for the ground to dry out, would we?” said Ellen, excitement in her voice. “We could start tomorrow. Unless there’s something more important.”

“No,” Moira said. “If we’re going to do it, and it looks like we are, then the sooner the better. Another couple of weeks and we’re going to be cutting hay.” Glen groaned and Moira grinned. “And you thought you’d already been busting your butt. You ain’t seen nuthin’ yet, buddy.” And she laughed, a carefree laugh such as she hadn’t heard come out of herself since way last year, before Thanksgiving. Before . . . Sudden tears sprang to her eyes, and she heaved herself up out of her chair. “Mornin’s likely to come early,” she said with mock sternness. “I need to get some Zs.”

Dawn saw Glen in the smithy, sharpening the scythe blades he’d found in the garden shed. Nearby, Moira was assembling the sturdy, lightweight cradles that fit on the scythe handles and would catch the grain stalks as they were cut. She had sent Joey to load a roll of baling twine onto a wheelbarrow. She’d made his morning when she issued him his own Barlow knife and assigned him the job of binding the sheaves of wheat as they came off the cradles. Ellen brought plates of biscuits and spicy sausage gravy with two eggs on the side. Moira and Glen each got a mug of steaming coffee, while Joey received a rare treat — hot chocolate. They made short work of the hearty victuals and were headed toward the field almost before Ellen made it back to the farmhouse. She would be along later, she said, after morning house chores were done and dinner put by. The sun was only halfway up the sky when her head popped up over the rail fence and she hopped over the stile. Gone were gingham dress and apron, replaced by overalls a size too large, a loose cotton shirt, and the wide-brimmed straw hat she wore while gardening. Given a brief lesson on the scythe and cradle, she was handed her own tool, assigned a row the width of a scythe’s swing, and left to her own devices. She leaned into the job and slowly acquired the skill.

By noon they had cleared almost an acre and were speeding up as their skills improved. Joey could no longer keep up with their bundles. He had retired to a shady spot and was cutting lengths of cord according to a measure given him by Glen. He delivered them by the handful to each of the cutters as they called for them. His pup, christened Aluicious, Alley for short, was helping.

With the sun overhead and the breeze no longer keeping the sweat dried on their faces, Moira finally called a halt.

“Let’s stop now so we’ll have the strength to do more later,” she said. They combined their last bundles into a single sheaf and headed for the farmhouse. They had just clambered over the stile and stepped into the roadway when suddenly Moira cried out and broke away from them, running up the lane as though a demon were after her. Her three companions looked at her in astonishment, then past her down the road at the museum’s lower gate where a man stumbled toward them, leaning on a wooden staff, a large pack on his back. Moira reached him in time to catch him as he slid to the ground. When the others reached them, they were even more surprised, because Moira and the man were on their knees in each other’s arms sobbing as if their hearts would break. Steven Lane had returned, just as he’d said he would. Strapped to his back on a packboard was his six-year-old daughter, Sarah. She seemed barely alive.

Once they were fed, Steven was relieved of a short version of his story — the town of Alton almost deserted, decimated by a virulent flu virus for which there was no treatment, with the town’s only doctor the first to fall, and Steven’s family dead, except for this one daughter. He slept the clock around and more, rousing himself in time for supper the next night. By that time more than half the wheat was cut and bound into shocks, standing like tousel-headed children in the field. He insisted on joining the work the next day, and by that night they had finished the wheat harvest.

Joey took on the care of little Sarah, who it seemed wasn’t ill, only half-starved, terrified and exhausted. Having a chance to be older than someone brought a new sense of responsibility to the boy, and he seemed to thrive on it, bringing her snacks, drinks, and small meals. He and Alley kept her entertained while the others worked the fields.

The crew thus enhanced made short work of the oat harvest as well, and by early June they were eyeing the hayfields in well-muscled anticipation. But one night at dinner, Glen made a surprising announcement.

“I guess I’ll stay on through the haying season, then,” he said in response to Moira’s description of the effort it would take to get the hay baled, hauled, and stacked in the barn’s massive loft.

“Where else are you gonna go?” Joey asked, laughing.

Glen didn’t answer for a minute, until he looked up from his plate and saw that all eyes were on him. “Well,” he said, as if they should already know what he meant. But he saw that they didn’t. “I was on my way somewhere when I stopped here,” he said.

A chorus of protests rose, and he held up his hand until there was silence. “Yes. I know. I’ve gotten real comfortable here. But even if I was to decide to make this my home, which is real tempting, believe me . . . we still need to know what else is going on out there in the wider world. We don’t need any more surprises of the kind you all had,” he said, looking pointedly at Moira and Ellen.

They had told Glen what happened after he questioned the circled cross brand on two of the four new horses. Moira had filled in Steven as well. They understood what Glen was saying. But the news of his impending departure, even though it made sense, was unnerving. They had come to depend on his strength, his savvy, and his trustworthiness. Steven was still recovering from his hurts, and without Glen they wouldn’t feel as safe anymore. He watched their faces as they each digested the news. Finally, he spoke.

“Look. The main clean-up work here has been accomplished. The feed crops are in, or will be. And you said yourselves there are things we need that someone is going to have to go out and get. That somebody is me. I’m the logical choice. I’ll take a pair of the Morgans for pack horses and bring back canning jars. And jar lids. And a newspaper if I can find one, by God.”

He stopped, the emotion in his voice bringing all their feelings forward. He took a deep breath and continued. “Most of all, we need to know for sure just what kind of a future we’re looking at. We need to know what’s left of this world. We can’t just sit here and let things happen to us. For all we know, this place, its resources, its seed stocks, may be the last best hope for survival, just like Moira has feared. If that’s the case, we’d better know about it. And we’d better get a few more hands to help, if there are any out there that are sane and reliable.”

They sat in silence for a long time, until finally Joey spoke and broke the mood. “See if you can find some more kids while you’re out there,” he said. “Me and Sarah are getting tired of just hanging out with crabby old adults all the time.” They all laughed, and Glen promised to do his best.

The next morning, Glen and Steven spent a companionable pair of hours at the barn and blacksmith shop, selecting the animals best suited for travel, repairing tack, including Glen’s worn saddlebags, and talking. Steven had spoken little thus far of his experiences prior to arriving at Falling Spring. Now, knowing of Glen’s impending departure, he seemed almost eager to share his thoughts.

“You picked out a route yet?” he asked.

“I have to go east first. I’ve got relatives over by Van Buren, or I did. I want to go far enough to get down off the Ozarks Plateau and see how it looks over closer to the fault. So that means at least as far as Poplar Bluff and Crowley’s Ridge. Then I’ll either head back here or follow the ridge south. All depends on what I find.”

Steven sighed. “I’m afraid all you’ll find is heartache, my friend. It’s bound to be worse over there. There may not be anything left at all.”
Glen nodded, his face a grim mask. “Either way, we need to know. You have any plans to venture out again?” Glen asked.

Steven shook his head but was a long time in answering further. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I’ve become a coward. I hate to admit it, but I felt a fear out there like I’ve never felt in those woods. I don’t want to go out there again at all. I mean, I was brought up on a farm, but this is different. I got so scared that we’d just die before I got us here, and nobody would ever even know where we fell. And then I thought maybe I’d get here and find her gone, or dead.”

Glen grinned at him. “She wasn’t, though. She’s one tough cookie, our Moira.”

“She is that,” Steven agreed with a chuckle. “Always was, although I’d never have dreamed . . .” he stopped, shaking his head, and made a gesture toward the graves up on the hill, his thumb and forefinger making a gun.

“Hah!” Glen laughed. “I would, after the way she went after me that first night.”

They laughed, then became silent. Finally, Glen spoke.

“You know, it’s funny about that. It was Moira who made me realize what we should be doing, and where I might fit into it all. I mean, it’s so easy to just look at all that’s happened in strictly personal terms, like it’s a disaster that’s only happened to me, or to us.

“But she’s right. What if we’re it — just us and maybe a few others here and there? There’s no way we’ll survive as a species like that. We’ll just live out our little spans and die, and that’ll be it. No more humans. I can’t . . . I can’t accept that. If there’s a way to find some others and bring them here, we might have a chance to begin again the best way we know how. And if there are more of those devils over west, I’d not want the world to end up in their hands, either. There ought’a be some alternative. So that’s my cobbled-up thinking. I think it’s worth a try, at least. What have we got to lose?”

Steven nodded, but his face was drawn as if in pain. “You’re right, of course. But I don’t think I’m going to be any help to you. I honestly don’t think I can ever go out there again.” He sat down on a hay bale and leaned forward, hands cradling his head and elbows resting on his knees. Glen stood for a moment watching, then moved to sit beside him. He pulled Steven to him and cradled him like a child. Steven tried to pull away, but Glen held him fast.

“Now you listen to me. I’ve got brothers of my own, or I did. And I’ll tell you like I would tell them. I don’t think words like ‘coward’ have any place in our lives here. This is all just too damn scary and too hard. We start judging ourselves by anything beyond our ability to just show up, and we’re lost. We are all valuable now, just as we are. We’re all we have. After all,” he said, loosening his grip and poking Steven in the ribs, meeting his anguished look with a wicked grin. “We can’t all just saddle up and ride off into the sunset, er, sunrise. Somebody’s got to stay here and keep the girls company.”

Steven looked shocked, then broke into a whoop of laughter, followed by Glen’s brash cackle. Thus far “the girls” had expressed absolutely no amorous interest in either of them. They’d all been too tired, and too scared, to even think about it.

“Tell you what, fella,” Glen said, “You stay here and tend the home fires while I ride out and see if there are any other fires burning somewhere. Maybe I’ll find us both a girlfriend.” He slapped Steven gently on the shoulder as they both stood, chuckling again.
Steven blew his nose noisily. “I’ll settle for you finding your way home again,” he said.

The new family found the Solstice celebration bittersweet, knowing Glen was leaving soon. Food, laughter, and a fire for jumping made a party of it, and little Sarah had her turn as fire vaulter, but in Steven’s arms, squealing with delight as everyone applauded. Both were recovering quickly from their time in the wilds, at least physically. But Steven’s eyes were shadowed and his smile infrequent, and Sarah was still afraid to sleep alone. Joey, though, was determined to lighten her heart. As the others talked, urging Glen’s return by summer’s end, Joey showed her how to find the Big Dipper in the night sky.

The morning of July first, Glen was saddled and underway astride his four-legged equine pal Willy, leading a pair of pack horses lightly loaded with food and camping gear. One of the collie pups, which Glen had taken to calling José, decided to go along and would not be denied. After sending the wagging adolescent back twice, Glen threw up his hands and relented.

“I guess we need somebody to watch out for us,” he called back from the old road that snaked back north along the river. He was standing in his stirrups to wave at his assembled family who watched him from the gate. As the little caravan reached the bend in the road, all eyes turned aside, following local superstition. Watching someone as they disappeared out of sight cursed the journey, or so it was said. Besides, it was time to get back to work.

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