Seeker of the Four Winds: A Galatia Novel (11 page)

How considerate of them.

During the council meetings, I usually sat in
the back taking the minutes, trying hard not to yawn, but today’s
was one of the more interesting ones. New city blueprints were up
on the wall, complete with a individual plots in the outlying
farming district. One farm had the name
Michael
Penn
written over it in elegant looping black ink. I had never
owned land before. Knowing a piece of this Earth was reserved
especially for me filled me with unexpected emotion. Unable to cry,
my body made up for it by quivering with joy.

A few minutes later into the meeting,
considering my charisma was acceleration of plant growth in and out
of season, the council decided that my fields should be the first
cleared and planted. Seeds had been rescued from the bunker fire
and I was already thinking about adding indigenous crops as well.
But right now, Red was discussing his intent to design the city
center around the Mouth of God.

“Building near a sinkhole is ludicrous,”
Professor Sweet voiced his opinion and many agreed with him.

“It’s not a sinkhole,” Red pointed out.

“It’s
probably
not a sinkhole,”
Sheriff Barrett retorted. “The engineers and geologist aren’t sure
what it is, though. What if it gets bigger and starts swallowing up
the city?”

“As I see it, the best-case scenario is that
we build a fence around it and charge tourists a buck a head to
stare down the pit,” Simon joined in. “The worst-case scenario—the
hole expands and destroys the capital. But so what? For us
Galatians, apocalyptic scenarios are just another day at the
office.” The room erupted with laughter, breaking the tension, but
Simon wasn’t finished. “Mayor Wakeland’s vision has gotten us this
far. What would be ludicrous is to stop believing in him now—when
everything he predicted is on the verge of becoming reality.”

The vote was cast, and Red’s proposal to make
the Mouth of God the heart of the city squeaked through by three
votes. The new sheriff in town said it symbolized how Galatia was
circling the drain. His words worried me, but I continued to place
my faith in Red.

..............................

Sheriff Barrett was walking the grounds with
the Bulwark lead contractor. He was using a laptop to show him some
blue prints. It was Vernoica’s laptop, I recognized it by the
picture of New York City’s skyline she had on its case. As the
city’s financial manager, she had most of the plans and budgets
stored there.

“Nothing is to be built inside this
perimeter; all this blank space around the mouth is reserved for
the mayor’s purpose, to be revealed at a later date.” Sheriff
Barrett explained to the Bulwark contractor, while he sent me a
look of disdain. He was pissed that Red hadn’t let him in on the
secret purpose for all of the blank space. I was a little peeved to
be kept in the dark as well. “Word is that the grindstones we
ordered for the flour mills are on their way up the river, so work
on the housing district while you can. Since food production is
high priority, everything else will stop until we get the
grindstones set in place.”

I leaned over the computer with interest as
Barrett went over the concept of sewer lines with the fascinated
Bulwark. The Bulwarks thought municipal sewage removal and
treatment systems were ludicrous, but we’d held so many meetings
about it that they’d quit questioning our plans, and simply carried
them out to our engineers’ specifications.

“In order to maintain sanitation, the
proposed sewer lines, which may just be a fantasy at this stage in
the game, will go here,” Barrett told the Bulwark. “The structural
engineering team is still ironing out the details. Housing
districts one and two just need interior trim, right?” The Bulwark
nodded. “The Deerma framing team can begin work in district three.
Are you with me so far?”

“Yuh,” replied the Bulwark.

Barrett handed him the paper version of the
plans. “If you have any questions, come see me before you dig. By
the way, has the rumor about Blanche Steelsun being a sorceress
died down among your workers?”

“Nuh,” the Bulwark said, shaking his head.
“But I’ve convinced my workers to stay, so long as she stays her
distance, and you keep the money flowing our way.”

..............................

(Michael Penn)

News of the superb quality of Galatian
jewelry had spread across the land. These were the pieces I had
collected as a boy, built by modern craftsman with centuries of
experience, many precision cut by lasers. Couriers for kings and
queens arrived with gold, silver and promises of goods in exchange
for coveted pieces. Red wasn’t naïve, though. He knew the couriers’
secondary purpose was to report back to their employers on the
city’s progress. The whole world seemed to be watching, waiting,
and wondering if one of the kingdoms, in a move independent from
the Alliance, would attack Galatia for its treasure.

Red often pressed me about my charismatic
visions, wanting to know if I had inside information about any
upcoming attacks. All I knew was that blood would flow—but where,
when, whose, how much, I didn’t know.

While all of this was going on, the docks
were expanded to accommodate all the imports. According to the
Regalans, there weren’t any towns upstream from Galatia worth
mentioning, just a loose collection of primitive villages.
Nonetheless, Red sent a party to explore the region and they came
back verifying the Regalans’ claims. Having money to spend endeared
Galatia to the wealthy merchants downstream in the heavily
populated cities downstream, enough so that they were willing to
ferry anything we asked for upstream, some of it inconveniently
bulky. However, true to his bunker roots, Red’s goal was to make
Galatia as self-sufficient as possible. We wanted to grow our own
food, grind our own grain, mill our own lumber, and forge our own
weapons.

The facilities were drawn up in the
blueprint, the supplies ordered, and there were plenty of workers
to go around. For a while, there were more non-Galatians in Galatia
than Galatians, a fact that worried both the mayor and the sheriff.
But another winter was on its way, and many Galatians were still
living in tents, so what choice did we have?

They mayor had also made a large trade for
weapons, because the issue of First Rights hung in the air like the
blade of a guillotine over Galatia’s neck. The arms dealer didn’t
want his name to get out, so everything was done on the down-low.
After the transaction was complete, Red and I sat in his temporary
office tent to discuss the future.

“My humanoid advisors tell me that the other
nations are just biding their time,” Red explained to me across his
new office desk. “They are letting us go to the expense of building
the city, and when it’s complete, they plan to swoop in and take it
from us.”

“Then why do we keep building?” I asked.

“Because the pillar of fire led us here,” Red
said. “This is our home.”

“But how are we going to defend it?”

“The power resides in the golden breath of
God, which rises above the mouth, day and night, calling my name.
But not just mine—the many. With the rising of his angelic army, we
will prevail.”

I didn’t understand his words, and was too
befuddled to form a question, so I said nothing.

Three Months Later

My family’s house, a red Cape Cod with white
trim that I designed myself, was almost complete and I couldn’t be
prouder. The well had been dug. Any spare time I had, which was
damn little, I spent on the finishing touches like shutters,
cupboards, and elevated beds for the family. The Penn House, as we
liked to call it, sat a mile outside of the city. I had already
worn a trail between my house and the city.

A group of skilled Commoners showed me how to
farm with the tools available in this world—no big machinery like I
was accustomed to in the bunker. But before long I had a
magnificent garden going and was increasing field capacity every
day. My willingness to share the bounty meant there was no shortage
of volunteers to help me with the planting and harvests. Thanks to
the gift God had given me, the community was already enjoying my
first crop of corn, beans, muskmelon, and various varieties of
lettuce. The apple trees I had planted would not produce fruit this
season or next, but the saplings in the orchard looked healthy and
strong.

I was most excited about the pumpkins.

We weren’t able to justify the space needed
to grow them in the bunker. I hadn’t seen one since I was a boy
living in Hewego. Mother promised to make me a pie. I couldn’t wait
for my children to get a taste of true pumpkin. When Bryce stopped
by for a visit, we hung out on the front porch swing and daydreamed
about pie.

“Pumpkins were the first fruits I touched
with charisma. Wait a second— is a pumpkin a fruit or a
vegetable?”

“Hell if I know.” Bryce laughed. “I sure
missed you the last ten years, Mike.”

“I missed you, too.” A question had been
percolating at the back of my mind for a while. Among us brothers,
there was no need for formality, so I just blurted it out. “Simon
Steelsun can be pretty intense, but overall he’s a peaceable
fellow; why is he so hostile toward Magus? And he doesn’t seem too
fond of Barrett either. Did something happen between them? Is that
why he left your settlement? Bad blood?”

“I’m sure that was a big factor. It’s a long
story, but no big deal, really.”

“I would like to hear it.”

“Simon’s narrow-minded ways created
friction.”

“The good doctor—narrow-minded?” I said.
“That’s difficult to believe.”

“What if I told you the laws of physics have
changed, brother? What if I told your there’s more to this world
than meets the eye?”

“Are you forgetting our Christian roots? Of
course there are many unseen things.”

“I’m not talking about the things of heaven.
I’m talking about an unseen river of raw power.”

“You mean the charisma.”

He shook his head. “I mean magic.”

I busted out laughing.

“You said that so serious. I almost believed
you.”

“I am deadly serious, brother.”

“You mean like spells, potions, and witches
on broomsticks?”

“The first two, yes. The latter—not that I’ve
seen.”

I scratched my beard. “I don’t know what to
say.”

“Say you’ll give me a chance to prove
it.”

“Uh,” I had been totally unprepared for this
conversation and the ensuing proposal. There didn’t seem to be any
harm in letting him show me. “Okay.”

I followed my brother across the meadow, to
the edge of the Kalida River. Wild violets covered the ground like
a plush purple blanket. A tree of unknown species grew nearby, its
chains of yellow flowers dangling over a table with log legs and a
gray slab top. He took a black metal box molded with celestial
symbols from underneath the table. Opening the lid, Bryce pulled
out bottles of colored liquids and a bundled white washcloth.

“As you know, I’m a man of limited charisma,”
Bryce said, “but watch as magic helps me bridge the gap.”

My eyebrows raised with growing
curiosity.

“Everyone thinks that the kindly Michael Penn
is the only one in Galatia with the power to manipulate the cycle
of life, but what if anyone could do it? What if every farmer in
Galatia knew how to produce a bumper crop, in and out of season? We
would become the bread basket of the world, the new superpower in
town.”

“I’m listening.”

Bryce opened the washcloth to reveal a seed.
It looked like a black acorn, except its cap was shaped like a
stovepipe hat instead of a tiny beret. He handed it to me for a
feel.

“A nice specimen,” I said, handing it
back.

“Magic requires more preparation than the
charisma.” Bryce had an empty measuring cup. “But it’s just as
effective, and more importantly, it’s accessible to anyone with the
know-how.”

He poured the various colored liquids into
the measuring cup, one at a time until the mixture turned into a
gritty brown liquid. The contents started to bubble, releasing the
scent of compost tainted with a faint sweet odor I couldn’t quite
place. Bryce wrapped the acorn in the washcloth, dipped the whole
thing in the measuring cup until most of the liquid was absorbed,
and then set it in a hole in the middle of the violets. He must
have dug it earlier in preparation for the demonstration. Covering
the bundle with dirt, he started speaking in a strange language,
making me feel uneasy.

“Prethoa guntento. Halibura Ithisaroh.
Delinatha rejata. Harckomana delarot litheno.” My brother’s words
were guttural, but rhythmic, strangely hypnotic.

“What language is that? What are you
saying?”

“Shhhh!”

I noticed the violets flatten to the ground
as if gravity had just gotten a whole lot stronger. The phenomenon
spread outward like a ripple in a pond. That’s when I saw a sprout
emerge from the place where the acorn had been planted. It grew
faster than anything touched by my charisma. Within a minute, the
seed had grown into a sapling taller than my head. In another
minute, its thin branches became as thick as my arm as they spread
out like a rose opening to a new day. Buds formed and unfurled into
triangular leaves the color of blue nightshade, with red veins
going through them. A tree, forty or fifty foot tall with a wide
canopy swaying in the wind, towered where there was only violets a
few minutes ago.

It was a hauntingly beautiful tree with white
flowers dotted against deep blue leaves.

“I-I can’t believe it,” I gasped. “But...I’m
the only one with that kind of charisma.”

“It’s not charisma,” Bryce said proudly. “I
told you—it’s magic. Think of the possibilities.”