Seeker of the Four Winds: A Galatia Novel (22 page)

Several names were proposed for Galatia’s
capital. Wakeland City was at the top, but Red vetoed the idea.
People would accuse him of nepotism, glorifying his family, and so
on. In the interest of the new nation, he wanted to avoid
unnecessary controversy. Therefore, I made it my personal mission
to campaign for the name ‘Zena City’.

Naturally, some people were opposed to naming
the capital of our nation after a dog, but she had as much to do
with humanity’s survival as anyone. The votes were counted and 75%
of council approved. In Red’s office, the Circle of Elders gathered
to officially bestow the name, while I held up my glass and toasted
her memory.

“From this day forward, as Washington D.C.
was to the United States of America, Zena City will be to Galatia,”
Red proclaimed.

“May your tail wag in peace as you look down
upon us,” I said, voice thick with emotion, “faithful friend.”

“To Zena,” Nathan said, raising his glass to
clink it with mine.

“To Zena!” those in the room joined in.

“In Commoner, it means ‘shining on a
hilltop’,” Red replied. “Which is fitting, because God told me that
one day I would build a nation, a beacon of light shining in the
darkness, and today His Words have come to fruition.”

Nobody said anything, but there were murmurs
of approval.

“So,” Red continued, “this seems like a good
time to tell you how God is calling us, the people of this holy
nation, to fast for three days as a testament of our trust in Him.
It is in His strength and goodness, not ours, that we are
sustained.”

Deafening silence followed, until Joise’s
mother spoke up.

“A three day fast—” Veronica looked over her
wine glass at Red as if he had just set down from Mars. “As in not
eating anything for three whole days?”

“God said bread and water are okay.”

“You heard God speak to you...with your
ears...using actual words?” she tested.

“Yes.”

Everyone glanced at me as if they expected me
to provide a sensible explanation for Red’s comment about fasting.
The wine turned to vinegar on my tongue. I trusted Red, but I
didn’t know how to spin this in his favor.

“The Summer Solstice will be here before we
know it, brother,” Barrett addressed Red in quiet tones etched with
deep concern. “Last time we talked, the game plan was to continue
accumulating swords, training for warfare, and making bullets. Now,
you’re telling us that fasting is the solution to preserving
Galatia?”

“Ridiculous,” Professor Sweet added.

“And not very smart,” Veronica said. “Our
soldiers are already at a disadvantage. Fasting will only make them
weaker.”

“God knows what will preserve us,” Red said,
“but how can He help us when you refuse to listen to His
messenger?” He stormed out of the room, clutching the blueprints to
his chest.

The elders broke out in hushed conversations.
I didn’t want to hear anyone disparaging my brother’s faith in God,
so I quietly slipped out of the building. As I walked along the
wooden sidewalks, the smell of baking bread hit my nose, making me
forget about the troubles in the mayor’s office for a moment. A tap
on my shoulder got my attention. It was my brother, Bryce.

“Mike, can we talk somewhere?”

“I don’t want to talk about what happened in
there,” I said, holding up a palm.

“Me neither,” he said. “It’s about something
else.”

“I’ve been meaning to check out the new
bakery. How about we talk there?”

Bryce was a shorter, less chiseled version of
Barrett. His voice wasn’t as commanding, but he had the same lively
blue eyes and chestnut hair. Whenever I looked at either of them, I
saw the stern face of my stepfather looking back at me. He had died
of natural causes in the bunker six or seven years ago. Can’t say
that I missed him.

Bryce was the quiet and nervous type, but we
usually got along. Other than his video hobby, he rarely took the
initiative to do anything, even something as small as asking me to
take a walk, so I suspected that his request to talk with me had
been influenced by someone else.

As soon as I opened the door to the
Northlands Loaf House, my somber mood evaporated with the wholesome
smell of baking bread, cinnamon, and a hint of vanilla. The oak
floors were polished to a sheen. Small round tables with gingham
tablecloths were set up in the eating area. A chalkboard sign
indicated that the Loaf House also sold imported coffees and teas,
and sandwiches made from both locally grown and imported
ingredients. Today it was ham with farmer’s cheese on your choice
of wheat or rye. Being homeless for so long, the little comforts in
life filled me with gratitude, and I felt the array of baked goods
before me was a great sign that Galatia had come into her own.

A glass display case showed round sourdough
loaves with slitted tops, long pretzel-top loaves covered with
poppy seeds, fat loaves bathed in sesame seeds, and an oblong loaf
striped with dark pumpernickel. Prices were displayed next to each
little beauty, in meelars. I reminded myself that a meelar was
similar to a dollar and a meelee was something like a penny. In the
interest of promoting free trade, the Council had abandoned our old
money system and adopted the West’s.

I’d already used much of my startup money on
seeds, tools and oxen to work the land my family had been given, as
had all Galatians, and although I’d gotten a bumper crop of grains,
I had little spare cash for the breads so mouthwateringly
displayed. Yes, I had my jewelry collection, but even from my youth
I knew that it really never belonged to me. Every meelee it brought
in belonged to Galatia to be managed by the leadership. As I
sniffed the yeasty aromas, I was proud to know some of the
ingredients were the fruits of the Penn family’s labor.

The woman behind the counter was the baker
and owner. She had a rotund face with a blotchy complexion. Her
name was Hannah Lachini. In the Bunker, she had been the energetic
sort and had owned a bakery in the business district. Hannah tapped
her fingers as I tried to decide what I could afford, which was
nothing.

“Do you sell it by the slice?” I
inquired.

“Just tell me what loaf you want and it’s
yours.”

“But I only have ten meelees on me, a piddle
of nothing.”

“Good grief, Michael, everybody knows you’re
the one who built Galatia. One of your rings, necklaces, or
whatnots put a roof over my head. The least I can do is feed
you.”

“Are you sure?”

Rolling her eyes, she ordered me to take a
seat. A few minutes later she brought out tall glasses of tea, no
ice, with a sprig of mint. A few minutes later dear Hannah was
pushing plates topped with fat ham sandwiches in front of me and
Bryce.

“Civilization has returned,” I declared,
feeling embarrassingly choked up over a ham sandwich. “It’s the
most beautiful lunch I have ever seen.”

This prompted a giggle from Hannah.

“It’s on the house, guys,” she said.

“Any plans to add cheeseburgers to the menu?”
I inquired.

“No beeves for slaughter yet. The farmers are
trying to expand their herds right now, so it won’t be anytime
soon, but I will keep it under consideration.”

That made me happy. I took a bite and savored
my ham on rye with sauerkraut and a dill pickle on the side.
Talking with a full mouth, I joyfully inquired, “Is that real
butter I taste?”

“I churned it myself.”

“This beats bunker food hands down.”

Hannah’s rosy cheeks lifted in a grin, her
eyes beamed with pride, and then a man’s voice called back from the
kitchen area.

“The oven door is jammed, dear. Can you come
take a look?”

She excused herself and went through the door
behind the counter.

As I was chewing, feeling rather content,
Bryce decided to spoil everything.

“Mike, we have to do something about
Red.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about
it.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know that Red is
losing it.”

“Losing what?”

“His mind and the trust of the people.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “That’s not
true.”

“Do you know he goes to that damn sinkhole
every night and talks to it?”

“He’s not talking to the sinkhole per se,” I
explained. “He’s praying to God.”

“And he thinks that damn hole is God’s mouth
talking back to him.”

“No, he doesn’t,” I said. My sandwich now
felt like a lump of coal in my stomach. “It’s just that he feels
close to God there.”

“Some things never change,” Bryce said,
leaning back, holding his sweating tea glass. “You’ve been
explaining away his odd behavior since we were kids.”

My mouth opened to defend myself, and Red,
but the words just hung there. Bryce was right. When Red’s unusual
behavior confounded people, I took it upon myself to put him in a
good light. It’s what brothers do when they love one another.

“For crying out loud—did you hear him back
there? He thinks he’s the messenger of God! We’re talking
impeachment here.”

“He has another year left in his term. The
people can make their choice known then.”

“That’s the trouble, with Red in charge,
Galatia won’t last another year.”

“But he’s gotten us so far...” I hesitated,
wondering if I really believed what I was about to say. “Maybe he
is
the messenger of God. Before everyone dismisses him
outright—doesn’t the claim deserve at least a little
consideration?”

“Ah-ha!” Bryce shook his finger at me as if
he had just uncovered a smoking gun. “You paused because you’re
starting to have doubts about him, too!”

“No—” I shook my head. “Am I?”

“If you have to ask yourself the question,”
Bryce said, “you’re having doubts.”

“Dangit, Bryce, now look what you did,” I
said, pushing my plate away. “You made me lose my appetite.”

(Michael Penn)

On a cool quiet morning in Galatia, a dozen
soldiers on horseback entered Zena City. The sound of horse hooves
echoed over the cobblestone streets. The soldiers wore uniforms of
varying cuts and colors representing the four major races.
Construction workers on their way to the job directed the soldiers
to the Building of National Affairs where Red was conducting a
meeting with the lead Bulwark Contractor.

Father Bob was involved in designing a
cathedral that Red wanted to build around the Mouth of God—a place
to worship and to pray, a place to celebrate life and to mourn for
the dead. Red called it
The Heart of Galatia,
but the
council had shot down his proposal to build it. He was going ahead
with the blueprints anyway. I was there with my pen and paper,
recording the minutes, when a knock on the door interrupted the
Bulwark in mid-sentence.

“Come in,” Red said.

Our brother Bryce poked his head through the
door. “Uh, Red, the thing you didn’t want to happen, but you knew
would happen, has happened.”

“Huh?” I said.

“Representatives from the Alliance are
here.”

Red’s back straightened.

“Should I send them away?” Bryce asked.

“No.” Red sucked in a long breath, held it a
moment, and then slowly let it out. “Of course not. Send them
in.”

Four soldiers in full armor entered the room.
Bryce trailed in behind them and shut the door. One of the soldiers
lifted his helmet and its nose guard went up with it. He appeared
to be a Commoner. His uniform was unfamiliar to me. I would later
learn he was from the southlands, a place called Hunterdon.

“Are you the leader of the Galatians,” the
soldier from Hunterdon asked in a loud voice. “The one who goes by
the title Mayor Red Wakeland?”

“I am he.”

The soldier clicked his heels together,
unrolled a scroll, and read loudly:

A Letter to the Galatians from the Western
Alliance:

You, the Galatians, are hereby ordered to
remove yourselves from the Northlands before the dawn of the next
Summer Solstice. Furthermore, you are banned from settling anywhere
in the Midlands, Southlands, and any place in between. If you fail
to comply with the Western Alliance’s directive, you will be
removed by force without regard for life, limb, or personal
property.

Signed—

Red interrupted as the representative read
off a long list of names.

“We get the picture, everybody wants us
gone.”

“I must read every name,” the man insisted,
but Red pounded his fist on the desk, breaking right through the
thick top, causing everyone in the room to flinch.

“To hell with the Alliance and every name on
that list!”

The scroll the soldier was holding burst into
flames—Red had invoked one of his charismas. The soldier dropped
the burning scroll in fright. I stomped out the small fire, while
the soldiers stepped back a pace, fear etched into their eyes.

Pointing straight to the door, Red said
between clenched teeth, “Alliance representatives, remove
yourselves from Galatia or I will do it by force without regard for
life, limb, or personal property.”

“We have delivered the order,” the first
soldier said. “And you have given your response. Our duty is
fulfilled. We will leave as you asked.”

Bryce opened the door for them and waved them
through like a policeman directing traffic. With a snap of his
heels, the soldier marched out, followed by his comrades. Red
picked up his chair and flung it at the wall, shattering the chair
to pieces. Father Bob and I shielded our faces from all of the
airborne debris.

“You shouldn’t have burned the scroll,”
Father Bob said meekly. “I would have liked to have read the fine
print.”