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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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