Ravens

By PJ Almeida

After the War of 2127, only two factions remain on earth. The surface dwellers include remnants and children of everyday people who survived the nuclear war. These people are forced to eke out a living on a decimated planet. The Project dwellers are survivors as well, but they live in a protected facility, mostly underground. Their ranks include scientists, artists, government officials, and other highly educated and influential people, carefully screened for inclusion. They moved into an underground shelter built to withstand a nuclear war; they knew what was coming and didn’t want to face it.

Seventy-seven years later, Jason, an astronaut, has finally returned to earth after a long space journey. He’s horrified by the state of the earth and the plight of the nomad survivors. He makes it his mission to bring the two groups together.

Ravens, a religious fiction novel, was borne out of a belief that only God can destroy the earth, while many believe people will destroy it by their wasteful and selfish actions. It presents a subtle influence of God’s principles in the lives of the characters, suggesting that he continues to work through people on the earth despite the conditions they find themselves in.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LifeRich Publishing
• Release date: Oct 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9781489738967

PJ Almeida

PJ Almeida studied creative writing in college and published her first book in 2009. A wife and mother, she continues to serve the Lord in her community, her work, and caring for the family God entrusted to her.

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Copyright © 2021 PJ Almeida.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue

in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4897-3895-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-3896-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021921675

LifeRich Publishing rev. date: 10/22/2021

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Epilogue

A special thank you to Marilyn Burkley for her excellent editing talents

and to my family for their encouragement and support while I write.

PROLOGUE

After the War of 2127, little vegetation sprang up from the salt-rich earth. Freshwater lakes and streams began to stink of death from the fish that had no way of avoiding the poisoned water. The oceans, too, held back their bounty. Hot rains burned like fire on the bare skin of the ground. Darkness would last for months before a single ray of sunlight poked through the clouds, seemingly only for a moment. Those were the wretched nights—when pitch black, starless, moonless skies hung over the world like a heavy thermal blanket. Even the winds were afraid to move and stir the hot, dry air that baked the earth and everything upon it. Surviving families were driven apart, the stronger members being sent out to search for food and water—anything that might relieve their suffering. But all too often, they came back too late, if they came back at all. Raiding bands of nomads would ravage the camps where the weaker ones huddled waiting for sustenance, killing them for food or taking them hostage for the supplies their scouts came back with. Soon, no one sent scouts.

No one stayed in one place for long. The family unit shrank to just two or three, and they banded together with other families for protection and companionship. These clans were semi-nomadic, moving around to keep from being found and attacked. Too soon forgotten were the happy times, those carefree days before the war when not only were necessities in abundance, but most people basked in the plenitudes of pleasure and personal gratification as a matter of routine, daily occurrence. After a few years, people didn’t even remember the war, let alone anything before it. They only remembered yesterday and the misery it contained. Tomorrow they would only remember today, and the misery it contained. Peace, comfort, laughter, luxury—these were words that had lost their definitions. Peace became the ability to hide successfully for another day. Comfort became the distance between you and a stranger—the farther the distance, the more comfortable you were. Laughter became silence. Luxury became the ability to read. And having something to read was the richest anyone could ever hope to be.

Out of necessity, communication took on new forms and purposes. Reading was no longer done out of need, but out of a longing for understanding. In the initial aftermath of the war, people had burned books, and not many texts survived that period. Sometimes they were burned for heat and other times for anger—anger at the intellectual idiots who built the bombs and then set them off. As the first survivors saw it, books were a symbol of intelligence, and it was the intelligent ones who’d destroyed the world. Anger was a very basic response, and the survivors instinctively expressed their anger in the only way they could think of. However, after many years had passed, books took on a more spiritual meaning. They were a source of understanding, a source of escape. Words, though rarely spoken or heard, became elevated somehow in the lives of the simple folk living on the battle-scarred earth.

But there was one group of people who did remember the war; yes, even the time before it. To them, words were just entries in a dictionary that were used to communicate. They were manipulated and altered to one’s liking, occasionally misused, but mostly bandied about without much thought or care. They were taken for granted, if you will. It was hard for this group to think of words as spiritual, as keys to a mystical and wonderful world where people weren’t afraid of speaking and where reading and writing were as commonplace as sleeping or eating. This clan was different, very different. They lived in The Project, a highly sophisticated network of underground dwellings.

Back in the mid-twentieth century, after the invention of the atomic bomb, people became afraid of nuclear war, and they built shelters under the ground to guard against the radiation and fallout after a nuclear attack. In the shelters they stored food and water and other supplies needed for survival for long periods. The uncertainty of the effects of this new type of weapon and its anticipated ability to cause long-term destruction inspired an entire genre of books and movies. Speculation became commonplace. Science fiction took on a whole new meaning. Children’s imaginations no longer focused on simple adventures but on monstrous constructs resulting from a world littered with nuclear pollution. Video games became learning tools for self-preservation from mutant beings. Talk of underground shelters also became commonplace. Secret hideouts and superheroes sprang up in all the comic books.

Entire companies sprouted up, offering to build fantastic palaces of safety guaranteed to protect the inhabitants from any and all danger. Of course, they also carried supplies to stock these shelters. Cryogenics, a scientific study still in its infancy, was also considered as a plausible alternative for outliving a nuclear war. Some people purchased time in a cryogenic chamber, with the promise of one hundred years of comfortable, peaceful sleep while the earth was restored. By comparison, survival in one of the underground shelters was supposed to last for only ten to twenty years. But after a few years these shelters became obsolete, and most were abandoned. The populace moved on to another craze. Governments were signing peace treaties and disarming weapons of mass destruction, promising better times ahead. No one really thought the war to end all wars would ever come.

One such shelter, however, was built and maintained by a group of individuals who were skeptical of the governments’ ability to keep peace. They knew what weaponry had been built—they were the ones who had designed it. They knew that disarming and disabling was not destroying, but merely putting the gun down with one hand while crossing your fingers behind your back with the other, knowing there was a six-shooter under your belt. It was only a matter of time, they thought, before the selfishness of mankind would destroy everything. So this small group of people—including teachers, doctors, biologists, physicists, chemists, historians, sociologists, and archaeologists—secretly kept their shelter alive. They continued to develop it into one of the largest and most complete self-sustaining compounds of its kind.

The Project’s compound could house approximately eight thousand persons and had a much more complex nature than any other ever built. Even those who knew about it were not familiar with all that it could do. Entire buildings were built under the ground, including a science laboratory, a hospital, living quarters, a school, a library, retail stores and other businesses, even restaurants, all powered by generators that could run indefinitely on recycled energy from radioactive waste (including fallout). It was an outstanding accomplishment for its time. They provided energy for heat, electricity, and artificial light. Unique power plants built partly above ground and camouflaged as manufacturing plants recycled the earth’s air and water, treating and cleaning the impurities to provide both fresh air and pure water for the shelter’s inhabitants. There were hothouse gardens for fresh produce and mini-parks for recreation that doubled as oxygen generators. A museum reminded them of their past. They even had a plan for a governing body to maintain rules and keep the facility under control. Nothing seemed to be missing.

Nothing except sunlight, that is. There was no sun, no moon, and no stars. The solar system was like a myth to the children who had never seen it. Of course, in any given severe post-nuclear situation, those things would probably not be evident above ground either, so what did it matter?

A glass-like bubble surrounded the complex, partly hidden in the ground around the shelter and partly showing above ground. The visible surface half folded down on itself when the inhabitants needed to exit, much like the old convertible car tops opened, and when they returned it closed up again like an eyelid blinking to cover an eye. Nine inches thick, it was designed to cover the shelter constantly to protect the power plants from deteriorating in the aftermath of war, and was initially triggered by an air raid siren after the war broke out. The inhabitants benefitted from its filtering abilities, although they rarely stayed on the surface within its wall. Most of the filtered air was channeled into a closed air system within the complex. The upper dome was made of a highly specialized polycarbonate silicone material and could vent in filtered air and water as needed from outside sources. The underground half was made of a specialized synthetic metal that withstood the deteriorating effects of the ground, allowing it to house the mechanisms that made it function. There were several access points within the complex for mechanics and specialists to work on maintenance and any repairs or updates that were needed. Only a very select few knew about the bubble: its creators and its maintenance team.

The shelter’s builders knew they would need a variety of individuals for the gene pool if they were to survive. They decided that these individuals should be scientists, inventors, artists, lawyers, accountants, corporate executives, teachers, and certain politicians—namely, those who could afford to know. The general populace was carefully scrutinized, and only the most affluent of potential candidates were screened for inclusion.

In the early days after the great destruction and shortly after the dark days had started, a few of the scientists started venturing outside onto the surface. The bubble was up, of course, to protect them from the radiation fallout and any raiding parties of nomads scouring the area for food. But there was a way in and out if you knew how to find it. They were curious. As scientists, they wanted to know how the environment was reacting to the radiation. They wanted to run tests and see the changes that were taking place. They were infinitely curious about the surface of the earth and especially interested in seeing how humankind was faring against the potentially deadly environment that their world had become. Existence, adaptation, or extinction—what would the outcome be?

But the scientists couldn’t risk being seen. They had to devise a way of doing this without being exposed. They constructed special suits to protect them from the radiation. These same suits would also hide their identities in case of curious onlookers or violent encounters. They armed themselves with stun guns and electronic torches and always traveled in bands of three or more to guard against the nomads roaming wildly over the land. Among the elite research group were archaeologists, sociologists, and biologists. They would take samples of the earth, the air, the water, and the vegetation—whatever they could find. Some would venture into local abandoned cities to see what had developed or deteriorated over a given period of time. Others would find a secret place and watch the clans, taking notes on their habits, appearance, and actions.

After a few days they would return to The Project, making sure that no one saw them. The darkness of the wretched nights facilitated this nicely, but they had other safeguards against followers as well. Still, they didn’t want to have to fall back on those. Violence was never their preference. After all, society’s elite were above such things, weren’t they?

Apathy, in its purest form, was not the same thing as violence. It wasn’t that they didn’t care about the surface-dwellers, as they called them. It was only that they didn’t have enough resources to care for all of them, and that meant that they didn’t have enough for any of them. No one wanted to have to choose who was worthy of help and who was not, because if they ran out of resources, then they would be in no better position than the nomads. What good would that do anybody? For the moment, the best they could do (in their own minds) was study the environment and see if there was any way they could help to improve it. Besides, this was the ultimate real-time experiment, the perfect opportunity to study and observe the long-term effects of radiation on the human body. How could anyone pass up that opportunity?

The conclusion that the scientists came to was simple: observation, documentation, and prevention were the only options available to them. They justified it by the need to preserve the lives of future generations who someday might want or need to return to the surface of the planet. The sacrifice of the many was necessary to preserve the few. And the surviving humans would populate the earth anew. The biggest question soon became, How long would those future generations have to wait before leaving the shelter?

1

CHAPTER

T he year was 2204. It had been 77 years since the first nuclear fallout ravaged the earth’s surface and vegetation was slowly responding to the occasional show of the sun’s light. Water rained down on the ground more often than the acid that was created from chemical reactions early in the war. Temperatures became less severe, allowing for more exposure by animal and plant life. Earth’s climate had finally begun returning to a somewhat normal state, although remnants of the severe upheaval of the environment would continue to plague the planet for many years to come. It was evening and the outside air was very still. A cloud of bird-like creatures swooped down to the ground. The ominous movement of their swift bodies sounded like the roar of ancient jet-plane engines, while the night sky provided some cover for their arrival.

Sara had heard them coming from a long distance—not with ears that reflected sound waves but with flesh that could feel the vibrations in the air. Her ears covered her entire body, which functioned as a resonating chamber that culminated in a sensation of beats bouncing off the inside of her skull. Even the slightest movement brought goose bumps to her skin. Tonight it was again the unmistakable throbbing in her head. She’d heard it many times before. Immediately she jumped up and ran frantically through the camp, arms flailing in incoherent motion and feet stomping out the heat-light fires so quickly that not even one spot on her shoes was burned. Yet she didn’t utter a sound. They mustn’t see the fire, she thought instinctively, or else they will know where we are.

The little blonde girl hid quietly under a dead tree stump and rocked herself gently backward and forward. If she thought someone was watching, she would stop and then sway from side to side ever so slightly. Because her body never seemed to want to sit still, her hiding place had to be nearly invisible. Her movements could not be noticed.

This time, as any other, she worried about the raid. She hoped she’d warned the others in time. During the raids, everyone had to be absolutely silent and completely hidden, unless they wanted to chance being discovered and taken by one of the mysterious creatures. She waited patiently, not daring to look up, because eye contact with one of the dreadful flying beasts was always fatal. Their evil spirits would snuff out your entire being without a second thought, and then they would carry you away and you would never be seen again.

Just outside her small hiding place, the birds were scattering. There were five of them in this raid. They looked around for flecks of light or any other sign of life. Large black creatures they were, with penetrating yellow eyes that glowed in the darkness. They combed the area thoroughly, sneaking quietly while moving broken parts of rudimentary buildings and dead trees, trying to find the people they knew were hiding. Sara stopped rocking and became very still at one point as one of them peered into the woods in her direction. Maybe they could hear her rocking. She was certain they couldn’t see her under the tree. Her father had made sure of that. Only after satisfying itself that no one was there did the two-legged beast continue on its way. Sara could breathe again.

The raid lasted longer this time. As the little girl slowly drifted off to sleep, the creatures, apparently finding nothing they wanted, finally retreated, occasionally looking back to see if something stirred that they might have missed before. Nothing did, and they were gone in a flash, melting into the blackness that was the sky as quickly as they had arrived.

Sara dreamed fitfully that night. She knew what the creatures were after. Even though she’d understood only darkness and fear in the soundless nights of her existence, in her heart she knew. Deep within the bowels of her tiny, frail body she knew. It was the words they sought. They wanted to destroy the words and everyone and everything associated with them. Words flashed across a sunlit sky in her mind. She could see them, but she couldn’t understand them. They swam in the brightness of the afternoon sun and burned in the heat of the evening’s dusk. Long words and short words, strung together and yet apart; they meant something, she was sure. But what they meant was a mystery to her. She wondered what it was about the words that the creatures were afraid of. Why else would they want to destroy them, she puzzled. She’d never heard the words that Captain read, yet she understood them through the actions of the clan.

Captain was the clan’s leader. He had been with them for many seasons, keeping them together and teaching them how to survive. These were a desperate people trying to survive in a desolate land. Communication was important. Captain knew that and tried to share his knowledge with them. He was strong; he understood the words, and he was willing to lead them. Food, shelter, and water were all scarce, but they had to stay together. Captain convinced them that together they stood a chance to live and grow. Alone they were prey, waiting to be picked off by a predator. Only together could they become a weapon when necessary, a shield for one another, and a stronghold for the entire group. Yes, there must be something very special about the words, Sara thought. They were what made Captain strong, she believed. Indeed, the words were magical and potent, forceful and mystical, ever-changing and elusive. Whatever it was that Sara didn’t understand was surely the answer to why the bird-creatures sought to destroy them. Now, more than anything, Sara wished she could read. Of all the twenty-three members of her clan, only Captain and Nathan could read. But tonight, in her dream, Sara looked at the words swirling freely in the brightness of her mind’s sky. And though she didn’t know it, she understood them. She read them. Silently, she formed their meaning within her thoughts then suddenly awoke, confused by the little that she remembered.

Daylight brought little solace to Sara’s clan. One of the children was missing. Surely it wasn’t the raid last night, for they would have heard the child cry out. But where could he have wandered off to? Sara felt compelled to help in the search. Somehow, she knew she wasn’t responsible, but she had to look. Nathan was her friend, and she couldn’t believe that she might never see him again. That dreaded possibility, and the feeling that something out there was calling out to her, kept her looking. Something she sensed, something she dreamed, something inside her would not let go of her mind.

2

CHAPTER

T urning a bend in the road, Cheryl came upon a small clearing. There were obvious signs of someone having stayed there for a time. There was a small pile of wood, partially burned, and some old cans and food wrappers. What was that? There was a small book resting on the log—a journal. She picked it up and opened it. The last entry read:

July 19

They must totally lack compassion, thinking that humanity in its suffering state isn’t worth saving. Perhaps they are too afraid of their own mortality to help their weaker counterparts. The earth was always in need of more mercy, as I recall, even during the times of abundance. I suppose especially then. It is only now, after having spent six months here on homeland terra firma, that I’m not so sure I like being a human being. It’s not truly that I don’t like being one, but that I’m ashamed to have to admit that I was once a part of the scientists, and I’m embarrassed to be seemingly better off than the surface-dwellers. I really want to help them. I cannot justify going to live in the bubble (not that I would be accepted), and yet, alone, I cannot hope to relieve the situation that seems to pervade what I assume to be just about the entire earth, or what’s left of it. These poor people have been forced to live with the mistakes of a selfish, prideful generation—my generation—whose nonexistent foresight caused the destruction now killing their children’s children . . .

What an awesome discovery! This was the diary of the astronaut—the one that she thought would have come back to earth a short time ago. Cheryl was immediately interested in meeting with him. But where was he? What was he like? She’d been looking about this area for a couple of hours and hadn’t seen anyone. Not even any of the nomads. Why didn’t he try to contact anyone? Where was the shuttle? Was it damaged? Why didn’t he stay there? Cheryl knew she couldn’t really take him back to The Project even if she did find him, but her boundless interest was getting the best of her. Yes, he would have to be decontaminated first, and then he would have to be debriefed on the situation. But that shouldn’t be too . . . what was she thinking?!

She would have to tell Abe about her discovery. He would know what to do. Perhaps nothing, but Cheryl couldn’t fathom doing nothing. She was young and infinitely curious about the earth’s past. There weren’t any of the original project-dwellers left, and this man might be able to show and teach her things—things no museum, school, or movie ever could. She also wanted to know about outer space, what it was like, how it felt to be up there so far away, what the stars looked like—her curiosity was endless.

Cheryl put the book carefully back on the log. She desperately wanted to keep it but didn’t want him to know she’d been there. He might leave the area if he did, thinking they would try to capture him. He obviously knows we are around, and judging by this entry he doesn’t think much of us. She wondered, too, on what he based his opinion.

Jason hid in the trees above the clearing, getting up there just in time so the stranger wouldn’t see him. He had observed the scientists enough to know that he didn’t want to go with them. He cursed under his breath at the sight of his journal lying on the log. It must’ve fallen out of his pocket when he jumped over the log, heading for the trees. He was sure the scientists would see it. Would they keep it, he wondered? He watched quietly as the stranger sat there reading it. Nothing to be done for it now, he sighed to himself. But, damn it all, there’s six months’ work gone down the drain. All his notes were in that book. He would not only have to start from scratch (writing down what he could remember of his notes and gleaning what he could from the computer, where he’d stored some information), but he would have to be much more careful from now on. They knew about him now, and he’d known that once they did, they would certainly want to find him. What, too, would happen if his new little friend were to find the book? She seemed afraid of so many things, yet at the same time more curious than a cat. Would she be afraid of the words it contained, he wondered?

Oddly enough, the scientist had put the journal back on the log after reading only a few pages of it, and then had walked away, turning frequently to see if anyone was around as they headed back down the road. The curves, the gait, and the graceful movements of the stranger told Jason that the suit hid the unmistakable characteristics of a woman. He was not surprised since women in his earlier days on the earth were generally considered stronger and more apt to pick up on details when observing and recording data. He could see her continually looking back toward the meadow to see if anyone appeared, but soon she faded into the background and was out of sight. Jason made sure no one else was coming before he got down from his hiding place. He quickly picked up the coveted journal and put it in his jacket pocket, darting away again back to the shuttle, taking care that he was not followed.

If only I could bring the two groups of people together, he thought as he walked. The astronaut believed that the leaders of The Project (as he recalled it), with all their technology, could greatly help the nomads. If they have kept enough knowledge to test and know the results of the radiation contamination on the earth, and if they can maintain their underground shelter environment, then they could do something for the surface-dwellers, Jason concluded. His observations told him those things were true. He’d seen the scientists combing about doing their research, knowing well what they were doing. The simple fact that they could do so told him they were maintaining some type of technologically advanced structure inside their little hideaway.

The bubble was a curiosity to the local surface-dwellers, and they guessed that it hid something inside, but they could never figure out how to open it or find an entry point. Most of them considered it a mystical relic of the long past, something to be revered and left alone, like a shrine or temple. Still, others wondered what was hidden within the crystalline wall and camped near it, watching for hours to see if anything stirred. Nothing ever moved, however, and most gave up after a few days. Jason knew of its existence both from observation and from historical documentation. Before he had left earth on his journey to the stars, he’d been made aware of it and in fact was invited to be an honorary member. Once he returned, he would be welcomed into the group as an integral part.

Jason finally reached the shuttle, and the computer, to log some notes. He’d met with Sara again earlier that morning, and she had shown him some unusual plants. She told him her clan had been using them for medicine. They seemed to have healing properties.

Upon finishing his notes, he reflected on the week’s events. He’d made quite a bit of progress since he’d landed, he thought, and decided to take a day off from his work.

Since landing and returning to normal--well for most human beings—work life, Jason felt the effects of being back on earth. In space, gravity was often nonexistent, and during cryostasis, muscles and body parts for the most part were preserved in stasis and did not deteriorate, or age. Consequently, he looked much younger than he actually was.

His thoughts wandered back to his work. It was infinitely more interesting than thinking about how old he was or how much his body ached. In fact, it took his mind off those things and allowed him an element of creativity. His computer helped him to communicate with Sara, and in doing so he was able to educate her somewhat about the world surrounding her. He did this through stories, much like indigenous peoples did in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries to pass on knowledge and history to their children. The stories seemed to be well received. Sara would take them back to her clan and share with them what she’d learned.

Jason had no idea exactly how much was shared, or understood, for that matter. It seemed that so many of the clan members were trapped in the silence of their minds—deaf certainly in the literal sense (a result of radiation poisoning genetically passed down through the generations) but also blind in the imaginary sense. They could not dream of any reality other than the one they knew. The stories seemed to scare them and most assuredly perplexed them, judging by their outward reactions. They were immobilized by fear, yet driven by it. They couldn’t visualize a different existence or understand that helping other clans and reaching out to them was important for their own growth and survival. (Jason could not know that their leader had, in a sense, taught them just the opposite: that survival was dependent upon their ability to be independent and self-reliant. He did teach them that they needed to help each other, but the scope of that help was primarily directed toward the members of their own clan.)

August 20

Not that the fear they had was unwarranted. Certainly the style of living these people have been forced into is no accident. This clan that I have been studying for some time now has seen quite a bit to be afraid of. It’s a small group of about twenty members. They’re extremely suspicious of outsiders, so I’ve done most of my communicating through one little girl that I’ve befriended. Even that was about five weeks ago. Before then, I just watched them from a distance. The people are all deaf (as I have had occasion to notice about many of the surface-dwellers that I’ve come across) but communicate fantastically through what appears to be an intricate form of sign language. It’s not anything like the formal sign language we learned in school when I was young. But it’s a beautiful thing to behold. It’s graceful and almost musical in its conveyance.

Sara, the little girl I have made contact with, is quick to learn the things I teach her. I have taught her many things in the short time we’ve communicated, and she has in turn taken the information back to the clan. She has taught me some of their sign language, and I think I have earned her trust. At first, she would only watch my actions and then return to the clan, mimicking the actions for them. They were confused initially, but now they seem to have picked up some of her movements and can imitate the actions she learned from me. Recently I have been sharing food with Sara to take back to the clan. We have a little meeting place (the clearing near the log), and I show her how to prepare the food I bring. I only offer simple food, but it’s nutritious. That’s something they don’t have any way of checking for themselves. They will scour their surroundings for anything that doesn’t taste bad or isn’t known to be poisonous. Once or twice I’ve invited her to the shuttle, but she doesn’t come. Perhaps it’s too far away from the clan. Still, someday I hope to bring her here.

The day before yesterday Sara told me about some scary black creatures, sort of like birds the way she described them, that come in the midnight hours and steal people because of the words. I cannot imagine what the words are that she is referring to, nor can I fathom any mutation of beast that would dramatically increase its size along with its intellect enough to support the notion that it would know to kidnap people. Unless . . . Could it be taking them for food? Not likely. Evidence, such as skeletons, would litter the ground if that were the case. I have yet to see one of these bird things, and there is no evidence to support that any one species of animal was affected more than any other—certainly not so as to enable them to read. Of course, intelligence may have nothing to do with it. In fact, judging by the descriptions Sara provided, it sounds like something else entirely. I suspect it probably has some sort of symbolic meaning, but I can’t say with any certainty. Perhaps something deceptive is a more likely explanation. The scientists come to mind. But what would words have to do with it? She seems adamant about their interest in the words. Strange. Sometime I would like to see these creatures for myself. I tell that to Sara, but she gets very agitated and shakes her head to warn me against it. Though she will not invite me to join the