We Are Strong, But We Are Fragile

By Bob Mustin

Samuel II, mayor of Citadel, a Blue Ridge Mountain enclave, is determined to end the city's wars with devolved tribal society, Freedomland. He sends troubled but insightful city archivist Jakob History to a bartering meet-up, hoping an interview with tribal leader Abraham Trapper might help further peaceful relations. Instead, the encounter leads J

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gridley Fires Books
• Release date: Dec 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9780692331767

Bob Mustin

Bob Mustin has had a brief Naval career and a longer one as a civil engineer. In the 1990s he was the editor of a Georgia-based literary journal, The Rural Sophisticate, and was later a North Carolina Writer's Network Writer in Residence at Peace College in Raleigh.

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PART ONE

OF GOOD FORTUNE, OF HAUNTING MEMORIES

21 DECEMBER 2090

CHAPTER ONE

The northbound flap to our two-person tent flew open to the first gray light of that winter solstice morning. Frigid air coursed over me like a pent-up river, the hardened flecks of snow like so many grains of wind-enraged sand. Then a pair of boots crushed a stand of icy stalagmites in the mud a foot from my head.

Jakob? A gaunt, child-like face, home to a sparse brown beard, appeared as the little man dropped to his haunches. A high tenor chuckle slipped through the tent flap’s ruffling. Takira? You tell ’im he got to pay ’tention to what I say, Takira. And, hey, this ain’t no time to have your head in his downstairs parts.

Takira’s kinky, dreadlocked head moved like a tunneling mole beneath the blankets mounded atop our pine straw-stuffed sleeping bags. Then her brown face appeared. She rubbed crust from the corners of her eyes, blinked, and snapped, Dog!

I hawked my throat clear and said, What do you want, Farkle?

Farkle was the little man’s nickname, a cleverly composed derogatory term. A runt among his Outlier peers, he’d been beaten by those fetid fur-clads regularly enough to force him to defect, fleas, grease, and all, and now he’s a most loyal Citadelian. Takira lifted herself onto one elbow, tugged the top blanket about her, and laughed loudly. I will submit henceforth only an inkling of her charming dialect in transcribing what I remember of her words.

Farkle? What you doing out at this hour, mon? You not crawling about at our mayor’s feet just yet, yah?

Said Farkle, I come t’deliver a message.

I smacked his boot with a fist. He grunted and duck-walked back a foot or so.

Deliver it, I said, and then get on with your business.

I ought not, he said, you bein’ so harsh an’ all.

We were asleep, dog, said Takira.

The message, Farkle. Then let us be.

Your request been approved by His Excellency. You got a room.

Takira gasped and grabbed my arm. Jakob, we got a room!

Okay, I said, as excited as she was. I steeled myself against the wind, worked my way forward, and glanced up to see if this was a joke. Everything about Farkle’s expression seemed earnest, so I said, We have papers to sign, I think.

He nodded. You come right now and sign ’em. If you don’t by first mealtime, somebody else might get the room. ‘Sides, His Excellency wants a word.

Takira turned a puzzled look to me. I put a finger to her lips, not wanting her to insult Farkle again. Creepy and obsequious as the little cur could be, he was The Tower’s courier, and his official duties would have him identifying us to our mayor in order to be assigned the room.

Give us a minute, Farkle. We need to get dressed.

He craned forward and leered at Takira for a moment, surely thinking he might get a peek at forbidden flesh, so I shoved at his ugly mug, pulled the tent flap shut, and Takira and I tugged on another layer of clothes. A couple of minutes later, we lowcrawled from our tent and stood, pulled on our gloves and sock caps, and trudged along behind Farkle toward The Tower.

Before the Great Debacle, The Tower was known as City Hall. Now, some sixty years after, The Tower serves as a rather depleted armory, where Citadelians must surrender weaponry when leaving guard duty or when disengaged from armed conflict. The stumpy, war-pitted building also serves as a keep for our mayor, his staff, his guards, and a few other personages.

We made our way across town, then up Old College Street, past the serrated hulls of buildings that mortar projectiles and rockets had gutted decades earlier. We crossed block-sized lots Citadel’s citizens had cleared of rubble, lots on which tent cities, kitchens, washing areas, and toilet facilities had been set up to serve until the caterpillar-slow rise of new buildings constructed from torn-down materials is complete. Halfway to The Tower we passed Statuary Oak, its war-stubbed branches lifted like hands of praise, clusters of brown and frangible leaves still clinging, even in that morning’s snow-pocked wind. A stray cat slunk hopefully from tent to tent. In the distance, a dog’s tinny yap answered a deeper one. Takira gripped my hand until we reached level ground, I huffing like a diseased smoker. Then Preservation Square, which has for years been where many of us would gather when sirens blared, where the Mayoral Guards would warn us of impending Outlier attacks and arm us. More recently the square has been used for selling wares and crafts, and for cultural renewal—inspiring plays from ancient bards, Shakespeare to Stoppard, chamber orchestras playing rehabilitated and newly crafted instruments. Takira’s dancers, who in their official capacity regularly create impressionistic versions of Citadel’s more momentous events, give performances there as well. And there’s even an occasional folkish singer. Takira and I stopped at the edge of the square. I threw my arms about her, gasped into her dreadlocks. She called out to Farkle to hold up so I could catch my breath. He turned, pawed at the ice-crusted soil with one boot, the squat, eight-story Tower looming behind him.

My heart and breathing calmed; we walked on and approached the first checkpoint. Farkle shouted his name into the wind. We three raised our hands and turned about in order to show that we had no makeshift weaponry.

Proceed closer, slowly, one of the Mayoral Guards bellowed, a burly man some six and a half feet tall. Obey our orders exactly, or we’ll fire. Keep those hands up.

I slipped and fell, courtesy of a swath of ice concealed in some winter-cowed weeds. Takira stopped to help me regain my footing. Then a rattling as the guards threw long-barreled weaponry to their shoulders.

I slipped on a patch of ice, I called out. Give us a moment, will you?

One of the Guards reached for his phone, spoke hurriedly. Seconds later, two more Guards appeared. One approached as the other waggled his weapon in our direction.

All right, what’s the problem? the nearer Guard growled.

My mate, mon, Takira said as I regained my footing, he stumbled on ice. The walk be tiresome, it take a breath or two to get him going.

He grabbed Takira, spun her, frisked her, then did the same with me. Finding nothing amiss, he stepped to one side and nodded us on.

At the checkpoint, we showed the Guards our citizen cards. They frisked us rather roughly and shoved us on. We passed the two remaining checkpoints with ease and entered The Tower. Inside, we had to negotiate two more checkpoints, those guards dressed in cleaner, ornately braided blue uniforms, and we climbed a flight of stairs to His Excellency’s reception room. The Tower had deteriorated prior to the Great Debacle, and the wars had brought on more decline. With the first break in the conflict, His Excellency’s father, Samuel I, had deemed it the first building to be restored.

The reception room is spartan, but not merely functional. The southerly bank of windows has long since been replaced and framed with deep purple drapes of Citadel’s finest burlap. Oil lamps hang at regular intervals from the concrete ceiling beams, and a large conference table lurks in the shadows behind His Excellency’s throne. That day four simple chairs, their components roughly hewed from pine, formed an arc before him. All this to inform anyone who enters that the room has been created as the nucleus of Citadel, with His Excellency at that nucleus’ epicenter.

His Excellency, our mayor, Samuel II, is a tall, still-handsome man of some sixty years, though deeply wrinkled, with the determined air of a true warrior. He tugged at his red beard, then pushed strands of fallen hair from his face, set his lap desk and a sheaf of papers aside, and motioned us to sit. We gave him an in-unison bow, and Takira and I sat. Farkle took up a standing position behind us.

Your Excellency, this here’s Jakob Hist’ry, said Farkle, and his mate.

The mayor’s thin lips curled upward into a guarded smile, his blue eyes on me, piercing as a predator’s. Of course, he said. I’m most familiar with Jakob and his work. He bent forward and turned to Takira, his eyes now agleam with hospitality. And you’re familiar, young lady. Do I know you?

Takira Dancer, Excellency.

‘at’s it, Excellency, said Farkle. She’s Takira, all right.

Ah, yes, our city’s choreographer, His Excellency replied. I haven’t had an opportunity to attend one of your performances, but I hear your dancers elevate Citadelian hearts.

She smiled and began to fidget, and then she fingered a braid of hair that had fallen across her face. A blush burnished her brown complexion. She nodded and looked to the unpolished pine floor.

They’s here for a room, Excellency, said Farkle. It’s they turn to get off the street.

Yes, yes, the mayor said, I have the writ here. He reached, thumbed through the papers he’d set in a precisely stacked pile on his lap desk, and drew one from the rest. He read it, and then picked up a pen, scribbled, and handed me the paper.

Surely we’d have a hovel somewhere, I considered. My contemporaries at The Enlightener and others in careers that necessitated a robust education had long since moved into residences of minor status, but most of those were sycophants, always kissing up to the Elders, our mayor, or others of significant rank here in Citadel. But I admit to this: I’ve always been something of a nonconformist, challenging the way of things in the city whenever I noticed situations that could change for the better. That’s why we were stuck in a tent, why all we deserved, by Citadelian custom, was a hovel at best, more than likely a wind-riddled lean-to. Too, there was my mateship with Takira. Despite our mayor’s generous comment about Takira’s worth to the city, she was still looked down on in some circles, as were most immigrants. And that’s why my mouth fell open as I read our new residence’s description. I signed it and handed it to Takira.

Mon! she said, we got a three-room flat on Old Broadway. Oh, yah! Then she clamped a hand over her mouth at this breach of etiquette. I handed her our mayor’s pen, and she signed.

Excellency, I said, equally taken aback at such largesse, it’s such an honor, but an undeserved one, so why—

As Citadel’s historian, it’s quite appropriate, he said, sitting back, eyes narrow and dark as unknowing. But I have a favor to ask. He shooed Farkle from the room. Takira stood to leave, too, but His Excellency shook his head, waved her back to her chair, and turned once more to me. We have a trading pact with the Outliers, something you’ve written about.

I’d determined never to be awed by Citadel’s powerful, but now I swallowed, hard. I’d indeed written several times about the pact in my column for our monthly paper, the Citadel Enlightener, and my opinions were hardly favorable. Why had I written in this way? The Outliers had recently grown more peaceful, due for the most part to the dearth of warfare weaponry possessed by individuals on both sides, particularly mortar rounds, rockets, and the long since destroyed drone planes. I’d heard rumors that our mayor had for the past decade quietly curtailed munitions and weaponry manufacturing on our side. Thus most of Citadel’s remaining weaponry now lies in disrepair, and only the elite Mayoral Guards and our citizen sentinels carry weaponry daily, most armed with a mere projectile or two.

And so with these depletions, the Outliers have slowly opened to trade pacts. But I’ve also heard reports I could only partly substantiate that the Outliers had violated agreements on a few occasions, strong-arming far more in trade from docile craft vendors than was equitable in bartering. In the few hours I’d had of late to act in my part-time capacity as a news reporter, I’d tried to get to the bottom of these reports, but our mayor’s office tightly controlled all information relating to Outlier pacts. So I’d asked in my Enlightener pieces why, if these reports were really true, were we trading with them at all? But, given that the pacts were now in force, why wasn’t Citadel doing more to control the Outlier bullying of our vendors? Was His Excellency about to take me to task for my opinionizing? If so, why the generous grant of a flat? Was he trying to buy me off? In that moment I could only nod regarding the trading agreement.

You are, he went on, familiar with a man named Abraham, I believe. Abraham the Trapper.

Was there something about that winter solstice day, some odd alignment of Fate that had brought about this series of jaw-dropping pronouncements? For the third time that day I was dumbfounded, and I hadn’t yet partaken of a morning meal. Abraham Trapper had once been known as Isaac Editor. I’d worked with him at The Enlightener as a fellow reporter when I first began there, then for him when he was appointed editor. So yes, I replied to His Excellency, I had indeed known this Abraham Trapper.

What you may not yet know, Jakob, he said, is that Abraham has wrested control of Freedomland’s food bartering network from a man named Jubal, killed him in fact. He paused, waiting for me to respond—or perhaps he wanted to gauge my reaction. But what sort of response was I to give? Outrage, since we now gained a goodly amount of our food from the Outliers? Some insight into Ike/Abraham based on our years-ago acquaintance? Then he dumbfounded me yet again by asking, Are you opposed to the handling and use of weaponry?

Although I have a normal abhorrence of weaponry, as do most Citadelians of my generation, my animosity toward those tools of death and destruction came from despair at the loss of my father, David, and my mother, Sarah. You see, their lives were so consumed by war that they could only name me Jakob. If that statement sounds a trifle odd, this was, I believe, their rationale:

Minutes after my headfirst eruption into the squalid summer of 2055, they gave me this name, from the Book of Ancient History, the name meaning he who supplants. And so when I was barely older than a tot, they would stagger back from battles spattered with blood and dirt and smelling of smoke. They’d kneel, tousle my hair or run a thumb across my cheek, and give me hopeful looks, this wordless ritual making clear, even to a child hardly old enough to read, that I would likely see them buried soon, and they would have me take up weaponry and continue their fight to defend Citadel, the garrison, the preserve of culture, commerce, and civilization once known as Asheville, State of North Carolina, its nation-state known either as the United States or America.

In the end, David and Sarah had bravely fought Outliers at the inner ramparts during the weeks prior to the culmination of my fourteenth year, were killed in a most gruesome fashion, and then were beheaded and dismembered. So I saw weaponry as the first step on the path to human depravity and personal degradation.

The odd thing is I’d never taken the optional pledge to abstain from weaponry use. His Excellency must have known this; that information is easily obtainable from Citadel’s Citizen Statements of Loyalty and Readiness. So was this merely a pro forma question? To hedge my bets, I said, I’ve no opinion either way, Excellency.

He pressed his hands together in a steepled pose and nodded. Then you won’t object to carrying them on a mission for me.

Takira began to fidget.

His Excellency turned to her, somewhat amused. And you, Takira?

She scooted forward on her chair, a strained expression on her face. If my mate going to carry weaponry for you, Excellency, then I do too.

He sat back. I’m to send him beyond the outer boundaries, into Outlier territory. Do you wish to go there with him?

Past the outer boundaries? Takira flinched at the suggestion, and so did I. But she nodded. We both did.

He slapped a thigh and smiled. All right, intrepid ones, you must understand why I’m asking this. Jakob, you still have a newspaper writer’s instincts, so I wish you to interview Abraham Trapper. Surely you’ve heard rumors of a new détente being considered between the Outliers and Citadel."

I had, but I’d considered them just that: rumors. As His Excellency described the latest pact in broad-brush fashion, I realized how tame the rumors were. Abraham, as it turned out, represented the agreement’s centerpiece from the Outlier side. He was to be given access to our city market, where he could sell produce, dried meats, and whatever else. In return, we were to be given peaceful access to Outlier territory along both the French Broad and Swannanoa Rivers to harvest deer and feral hogs. But before the pact could be consummated, our mayor wished to know more about this man who had become Abraham Trapper, thus my mission to interview him. We were to leave at mid-morning, after we’d enjoyed a leisurely cup of tea with His Excellency.

FIRST INTERRUPTION FROM FREEDOMLAND

Abraham woke, pulse thumping. He grunted loudly, glanced to the lodge’s entrance, where tendrils of morning light wended through gaps surrounding the ill-fitting door. He blew out a long, frosted breath, raised to one elbow, blinked, and looked to his mate, who was still asleep, her arms hugging the boy, Ishmael. Damned lad. She’s always hugging him, never an eager fark or even the slightest bit of warmth for me. The door creaked open, and two heads appeared, those of his bodyguards, Rufus and Reuben.

Master Abe? said Rufus, a tall, beefy man with eyes set close together.

Yeaah, said Abraham. Why’d ye two clodfarks let me sleep this long?

Y-ye had a lot from the cup last night, said a nervous Reuben. We figgered you ought sleep it off.

Abraham sighed, nodded, rubbed his forehead, then knuckled his still-clouded eyes. I need a piss and a bowel afore we hit the road. How much snow out there?

"It come down regular, Master