Veracity (37 page)

"Sovereignty!" the crowd responds loudly.

On the stage, the old man bows his head slightly. "My home is across the sea. In a faraway country where God walks freely through the land. Through mountains made soft by snow and fields the color of the sun. All of it is a church. There, when you speak to God, you get answers. Clear as my voice, they come, and you understand them.

"In the land of my mother and father, we coveted sustenance for our souls as much as sustenance for our bodies. And, thusly, we kept our words as if they were made of gold." Such a voice this man has. The way he sounds isn't a sound at all. It's a river into which words are thrown.

"We knew the difference between that which cannot be expressed and that which
must
. We understood that while words are a path taking us only so far, they are requisite to the journey. They are like road maps that show us which way to go.

"Tonight's entertainment will be short and sweet, as tomorrow we go to war. This final tale will be the story of our landing. 'The Fallen Queen.'"

The storyteller holds up his hands and the room is hushed. Heads are bowed for the benediction. "God be with us on the field. Grant us pardon from the belly of this good earth. Let our numbers be sufficient. Let our hearts be valiant. Give us strength over whatever might try to stop us. Above all, let us move into our new world with what we've tried to bring over from the old. Give us ears to hear and eyes to see that we may never lose so much again. Amen."

A couple hundred voices: "Amen."

The old man is standing with hands down, his body diminutive in opposition to his voice. "Many years ago, we heard the cries of this country's people. We heard the rolling-back silence that is a soul being starved. So we came, a young man with a young wife. We came as missionaries to do what we
could. My wife and I and a boatload of others came across the Atlantic, our voices strong, our stories sheathed like weapons at our sides. We were willing to die for the cause. To free a few kindred souls, should we make it through the harbor and the line of men with guns.

"We were an hour off the coast when a boy came sliding down from the crow's nest, his shaky finger pointing toward the land, eyes wide." The old man smiles big, providing the crowd a view of his rotting teeth. "We ran to the bow, prepared to see an army of ships, boats with guns aimed our way. But it wasn't any such patrol coming after us, a small group of well-storied missionaries. It was a woman. A woman tall as the sky! A hundred feet toe to crown and made of greened copper! In the highest hand, she held a torch to guide us safely in. In the other, she held a tablet. A book, it's said, inscribed with the date of their independence. Around her feet lay chains unbound--the remains of her former enslavement. She was still as a stone. We thought her a statue. Until she moved."

A few people gasp. Most go stock-still even though they've probably heard this story before.

The old man walks slowly along the edge of the stage, his eyes bright as stars. "She bowed down to us. To a small boat filled up with small people who'd sailed halfway round the world to help her. She bent at the waist, her brittle gown screeching. The torch came arcing down, like a seaplane landing. When it breached the surface of the water, there was a moment of luminescence. The nighttime harbor was set alight. It was as if the sun had fallen into the sea. Then it went out and she toppled forward. The chains that had been loosed began to move. Like a serpent, they slithered up her torso and wrapped themselves around her waist. They pulled her off the island's mantle and dragged her body down and away, down and away, until the only thing left was a circle of white marking a hole in the sea.

"Our queen was swallowed up right there before our eyes. And the boats that might have been set out toward us were swallowed up with her. We were pushed away from that shore and set on another hundreds of miles away. This mighty queen had drowned herself so that we might live. And each and every one of us knew it. We understood her sacrifice as if she'd whispered it in our ears." The man breaks off, one trembling hand held aloft in the air. Eyes squeezed shut, face pinched in sad remembrance, as if it had been real. "Long live the queen of America!"

"May we, on the morrow, do her proud."

Applause follows. But the clapping hands and whistles are tempered by sadness. There is no tall green woman standing off the eastern shore, holding a torch and welcoming strangers. Just a string of militia that runs the whole length of the seaboard to keep us in and others out. I don't understand the story. But I understand the sacrifice.

I look around me as the storyteller abdicates the stage to his daughter, Anna. John's still not here. Or at least nowhere I can see. I watch as the white-skinned woman takes her position in the center of the stage and begins stretching out liquid words of her own.

Goddamn the Confederation,
I think. Had I heard music before, I would have joined up years earlier. There's something about the vibration in the woman's voice that feels familiar. I close my eyes and let Anna's song play behind my memory.

I think of Veracity as a newborn. She had a mass of curly hair and inky brown eyes. We spent my two weeks of maternity leave together in a gliding chair Mr. Weigland bought me. We rocked back and forth for days, her impossibly warm head
on my chest, me making similar sounds. Like exhalations with tone. Nothing like Anna's song. Nothing with words. But the peace those expressions brought . . . I'd forgotten.

"Harper."
John is standing behind me.

I turn and look at him. Encourage him with a smile.

"I know I'm presuming a lot by coming . . ."

"No," I say. "You're not." I reach out and curl one of his hands into my own.

"I only have until midnight."

I nod. "Lazarus told me."

We're so close, I can see the fine details of John's face. He has a scar just beneath his hairline and a mole above his left eyebrow. There are telling lines in his forehead and at the outer corners of his eyes that show me a lifetime of worry and concern.

Who are you?
I blink.
Are you safe? Are you someone I'll be able to know? To love? To trust?
God, how I want to.

"Is this okay, Harper?" John asks.

I close my eyes and lean into him.
Can I trust you? Can I trust you?
"Can I trust you?" I finally ask. But it doesn't matter what he says. My heart's going to have its way, whatever his response.

"Yes." John leans down and kisses me on the lips, the neck, the line of my jaw. "I had a son," he says, his mouth moving between words. "He was six years old. They killed him for speaking a Red List word." He stops and looks into my eyes. His are pink, yet dry. Long-run-out tears nowhere to be seen. "I don't even know which one."

I resolve to let go of everything and make a deal with God.
Give me a few moments of intimacy, a memory to carry with me into war and I'll give up the safety of isolation and let my heart love what it loves. Whom.

I follow as John leads me away from the stage, down the main hall, and into the one leading to the library. A light emanating from the handle reads his identity as his free hand holds mine. The door opens and warm air rushes past.
I follow him up the stairs toward the far corner of the library. Only there do we take off our shoes. Kissing and touching, we make quick work of each other's clothes. Our hands are nimble. There isn't much time to catalog John's scarred body or the flecks of gold in the center of his brown eyes. The feel of his hands tangled in the back of my hair.

"You're safe here." He kisses me, repeating,
"Safe. Safe."

We lie down together on the carpeted floor under the stars of a painting someone has only recently placed on the wall. John's hands guide me gently to him, stroking the flesh of my arms and face. He understands the history I can't forget and is giving me control. Whatever the spigot that will guide this love, my hands are on it. I tighten the valve, and John pauses, kisses my mouth, wipes away tears started in the corners of my eyes. I loosen the valve and he's free to remove my clothes and explore me. I turn my head into his shoulder and inhale.
God, the smell of him.
Just like that day in the alley.

Everything about this is bittersweet.
Every feeling, movement, scent, and taste is tinged with our unfortunate past and the unknown future that begins nearly as soon as we've finished. He's going away. I am not.

"Harper." John is saying my name. Repeating it into my hair and neck. "Tell me what you want. Tell me."

I take hold of John's head and look into his eyes. Invite him in.

After, we hold each other for longer than we should. Until we have to hurry and put on our clothes and our shoes and walk back down to the first level and then out to the rear hall, where he'll leave, exiting the bunker via the emergency door. He's going up into the world, where, in the early hours of the morning, he'll find himself in the Geddard Building. It will be a suicide mission if I can't get him the identity of the main redactor. The thought pierces me. For a few seconds, I forget to breathe.

It's a struggle not to tarnish this experience with all the things I want to say.
I'm sorry. I promise to get you to the master.
Don't go.
We stand at the mouth of the rear exit, holding each other until it's fifteen minutes past midnight. Then John keys in some coded number on a pad next to the door. Like the library's, it springs open with a pop, this time letting in cold air.

John smiles down at my face and kisses my mouth. Then steps out into the earthen tunnel that will deposit him in some barren field. "You know how I feel about you," he says.

I take one step toward him. "John . . ." I begin.

But he's already pressed a button that closes and locks the door between us. I stand there for a whole moment. Blinking at the place John just was. I didn't get to return my answer that would have sounded more like a question.

apostasy

discriminate

ego

fossil

heresy

kindred

obstreperous

veracity

Lilly is standing at the side of my cot, holding out a small pile of new clothes. They are the color of the dormant, midwestern earth. Utilitarian garb, like I'd imagined. But they're new and clean and signify an end to living beneath the soil.

"Get dressed," she says. "You can use the loft area behind the O'Keeffe paintings." She steps away, indicating she means now. "You still have your pill?" She's talking about the cyanide. The kill pill.

"Yes."

"And your drive?"

It's on a chain around my neck. Only a few of us got one. A bullet-size map to the new government. The DNA for our new country on a flash drive worn around our necks.

"Yes." I feel for the short tube. If caught, I'm to swallow it, too. Before the kill pill, not after.

"When you're dressed, let me know. We have one last thing to do before we head out, seeing as you're the carrier."

I go up to the library's art section and put on my uniform. It's loose in the legs and tight across the shoulders. Itchy canvas, unwashed and unyielding.

When I come back down, the council is assembling. They come in through the open library door and gather behind Lazarus, Lilly, Noam, and Ezra, who've formed a front row. The group is standing before a table that's been pulled into the center of the room. Lazarus motions me over. On the
table is a medium-size box with golden brown sides and an engraved cover.

"Harper, despite the stress of the situation"--by which, he means my recent loss of abilities--"we believe you'll be able to help us keep safe the most important document this country has yet to see. Therefore, we're asking you to be the carrier for our most precious possession,
The Book of Noah
."

The box's cover is etched from a dark reddish wood. Mahogany. Adorned in a pattern of vines below, a cluster of redwood trees above. The slim trunks set in copper, the arms in gold. Redwoods are the oldest known trees in existence. Older than Christ himself. I know from a presentation given by our Pastor, complete with slides.

"As far as we know, this is the only copy that survived. You'll have to be careful with it." Lazarus runs a bony finger over the tree. "Do you know what a metaphor is?"

"No."

"A metaphor is an expression that uses seemingly unrelated imagery to convey its meaning. For example, this tree represents the individual. What you see below . . ." He taps on the bottom, on an endless coil of roots where each tree has become hopelessly entangled with the others. "This is what keeps them standing. This is the resistance."

A redwood can grow to a height of almost four hundred feet. Looking at them in Pastor's pictures, I was amazed these skinny giants could withstand a high wind. Or even a good stiff breeze. So disproportionate to their base, they should have been easily toppled.

Pastor explained it this way. "They hold hands beneath the earth." It was the one thing he ever said that I liked.

Lazarus's explanation is more literal. "They intertwine their roots." His finger follows a tendril. "Alone, a tree of that stature would never survive. United, they live almost forever." He motions me over next to him. Nods at the box. "Open it up."