The Last of the Freemen (6 page)

“Charles the Great!” Bern exclaimed.  “You people are taught to idolize the most brutal killers, and empires that slaughtered on epic scales.”  He slipped the machine gun off his shoulder and set it on the table, then leaned forward to rest on his elbows.  “When it suits them, they dress it up as noble, as heroic, as necessary.  The difference between gangsters and governments is that gangsters don't run education, entertainment, and the press.”

Erin looked at him in bewilderment.

“So Carl the Butcher,” Bern continued, “he was in the business of killing, conquering people, taking their land, demanding tribute from the survivors in perpetuity.  Common enough, the Romans did it, they do it today, invading in the name of peace or democracy or human rights, then cramming hopeless debt down their throats. But unlike the Romans, and really, clearing a path for the puppet masters we have now, the Butcher understood that if he destroyed a culture, then the people would be easier to control. You wouldn't need an occupying army.  Those are expensive, you know. And because he controlled the Church, forced conversion became the way to do it.”

Erin's expression grew more confused.

“So when he took his war to the Saxons,” he went on, “it was a bloody fight, it went on for years. The Butcher and his churchmen, they killed our people for refusing conversion, young and old, man or woman. Eventually the Saxon nobility capitulated, they entered the Church, accepted Frankish rule, and agreed to pay homage, because they were allowed to keep an elevated position in life. But the Saxon freemen? We lost our freedom, our way of life, and our laws, which is to say, the rightful, allodial ownership of our land.  We were reduced to servitude. But those forced conversions never took root in our hearts, and neither did any allegiance to the thieves called leaders. Of course armed resistance was futile at that point. Some tried to revolt, a generation later, long after the Butcher was dead. They called it the
Stellinga
, but not surprisingly, they were mostly all killed. There’s a saying, you know, that lightning strikes more trees than grass. It’s always better to keep a low profile.

“So,” he said, patting the table with his hand for emphasis, “we've kept hidden since then, following the old ways and the old law, but blending in to survive, finding our freedom in places other than war or politics. Plenty of stories there.  And some of us came to America, obviously, it was over three hundred years ago, and here we are now.  In fact, we're all that's left. Those who stayed back in the old country, they disappeared over time, with all the wars and upheavals over there. Cultures can be destroyed, you know, people forget who they are, through the mass murders, education, relocations. It's the machinery of empires, turning people into material. The European tyrants have been working at it for a long time.  Now it's come full force to America, and viciously.  Though I suppose the Indians were thrown into that meat grinder a long time ago, so it's not really new here, either, it's just getting around to the rest of us as they run out of people to rob.

“So there it is, in a nutshell and transplanted across an ocean. We’re the
Frielingen
, or the
Freibauern
, depending on the family and the dialect.  We're descendants of the Saxon freemen.”

She sat speechless. He took a long drink from the water jug and sighed.

“I don't know what to say,” she finally managed.

“You don't have to say anything. We just go on about our business, whatever goes on in the world. We remember who we are. You folks don't, at least it doesn't seem to me, you become whatever your shapers want you to be. Soldiers, wage slaves, consumers, idiots. Oxen trudging around the mill.  Sheep, but you shear yourselves and hand over the wool.  Ha!  Self-shearing sheep!

“But we've kept our memories, our traditions, and our knowledge of the natural law, in our hearts and our stories. It's the only law that binds us. The only power they have over us is that of the sword - or the gun. And of course, they outnumber us. But they have no power over our minds.

“And now that they’ve sucked the last fat from the land, and they’re spilling blood again, we remember and we know. It's nothing new. These fools in charge now, they have so much power, so much wealth, such deadly armies, but they’re still only flesh, and they’ll rot with time. As they always do. Their castles crumble, and the vines of freedom run rampant over the ruins. We keep our heads down and outlast them. That's what we’ve done for the last twelve hundred years or so.”

He stroked his beard and leaned back in his chair as he contemplated.

“You and your baby,” he continued, “you’ve been caught in their machinery, the same as we’ve been, many times. So you’ll be called an outlaw, but you know what? Their laws are nothing to us but defilements of the natural order.  Be glad you’ve escaped them.”

“So then,” she began, holding Hughie a bit closer, “what exactly do you believe, that makes you so different?  You don't sacrifice people, I hope?”

“Ha! No, don't be afraid.  We follow our own ways, and the natural law, like I said, and not the rule of men or mobs. We try to blend in, but we also keep to ourselves at the same time. Our customs, well, those are private matters, but they don't involve anything like human sacrifice.”

“And you’re sure you don't mind helping us?  Even though we’re not your kind?”

“We help our neighbors. It's our way. And beyond that, there's an understanding among us - most of us - that we need to help outsiders, particularly where we share a common enemy.  Harm is always busy moving guns or food or bullets to people fighting the system. Not that we all feel that way, families aren't bound to agree. We have no authority above the family level, so I can't generalize. Families do what they will.”

“It's an incredible story.  Maybe it should be documented somehow.  I could help -”

“No.  I know you mean well, but that's one thing all the families have always agreed on.  We keep ourselves private.  Always.”

“But that could change, couldn't it? People are more open-minded now.  Maybe I could get permission?”

“From whom?”

“I don't know. Do you have a chieftain?  Some sort of a leader?”

“No, certainly not.”

“There's no leadership?”

“As a group? No. If anyone tried to lead us, we'd have to kill him,” he said with a smile.  “Because we follow custom, we need not follow any man.  We meet as equals, with some deference to age.”

“So there must be some social pressure to behave in a certain way.”

“There is, but isn’t that always the case, everywhere, to some degree?”

“I suppose.”

“We refer to ourselves as being in our own circle,
’im Kreis’
, as we say it.  That means you're in good standing with all the families, at least all the families you know. It can get confusing when someone’s been shunned by some families, but not others. There are some gray areas that arise, but they usually sort themselves out over time.”

She nodded her head but yawned as she struggled to process it all.

“You’re tired,” he said, “and I’ve given you a lot to digest. Why don't you put the baby down, I'll set the cot up over there. I don't know how much sleep we’ll get tonight, we’ll probably be on the move.  You should try to rest.”

“Okay.  I guess it's all catching up with me.”

He placed the cot next to the crib and set his chair outside on the porch.

“I'll be out here,” he said, grabbing the machine gun.

She gently placed Hugh in the crib and faced him as she settled in on the cot; Bern waited until she was situated before he pulled the door nearly closed. Though she found the situation uncomfortable, and her mind was racing, exhaustion soon carried her into sleep.

Erin awoke to Hughie’s crying.  She sat up disoriented and looked to the door; it was still daylight outside.

“Bern?” she called as she lifted Hughie.

“Yeah?” he answered from just outside the door.

“Is it okay if I change Hughie on the table here?”

“Of course.” He pushed the door open with his foot but remained seated.

“Did I sleep for long?”

“Maybe an hour and a half.”

She quickly had Hugh clean, dry, and quieted, sitting comfortably on her arm. “What should I do with this dirty diaper?”

“There are some garbage bags in the cabinet.  I'll bury it out here in a bit.”

“But it's not the biodegradable kind.”

He smiled wearily.  “We have bigger problems than that right now, I think.”  He stood and went to the storage cabinet, where he retrieved a garbage bag and held it open for her; after tossing the bag out the door, he returned to the cabinet and removed a steel cylinder with openings at the top and side.

“What's that?” Erin asked.

“A rocket stove.  You can cook with just twigs.  They burn off most of the smoke, so they’re clean and hot, and next to no smoke to give you away.  Clever design.  Harm came onto these, and liked them, so he bought a few hundred and gave them out to our folks, so the idea could be made use of. And of course, he stocked all of his hideouts.”

He carried it to the porch and placed it near his chair, then returned for a pot and a bottle of milk.

“Might as well use this milk. It won't keep long without an icebox. And I did some gathering while you were asleep.”

Only then did she notice two small heaps on the porch, one of twigs and another of leafy greens. He sat down again and began putting small twigs and pine needles into the aperture at the side of the stove.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked, moving closer to watch.

“No, don’t worry.”

“What have you got there?  You foraged some wild food?”

“Not exactly wild.  Half-wild, maybe.  Wherever we go, we bring certain plants with us, like I was saying before. They're our fellow travelers, you could say, part of our
Kreis
, our circle.  And a lot of them will fend for themselves, once you get them established.  Cicely, bear’s leeks,
Giersch
, which I think you people call ground elder, violets, hops, rampions, mallows, linden, all still growing here in the wake of our kind. No doubt there was an elderberry outside the door here at one time.” He took a lighter from his pocket and ignited the tinder.  “It’s our way. Alongside more conventional crops, we keep these foods that can grow on their own, that others don't notice.  The more food you can grow without the crooks knowing about it, the freer you are.  Because if they know about it, they'll regulate it and tax it, or if they can't profit from it, they'll outlaw it.”  He added some small twigs to the fire.  “From medieval overlords to modern agricultural bureaus, it's always about a return on leverage, to make farmers profitable to the people at the top.  Grow only what can be enumerated and taxed, traded as a commodity, exported. Not that there's anything wrong with making money, mind you. But it's not the farmer making it, most of the time, not when he listens to them.

“You need to feed your family first. Because when a crop failure hits or prices collapse - and one or the other always happens, sooner or later - and you've got just one or two crops, then you starve, or lose the farm, if you’ve let them trap you in debt.  It’s foolishness, but governments always discourage what they call subsistence farming, because they can't profit from it.”

He placed larger twigs in the opening, watched the fire grow hotter, and seemed pleased with the result.

“There we go,” he said, and emptied the milk bottle into the pot; he placed the pot on the stove, then began tearing the assembled leafage into small pieces and adding it to the milk. A smile came to his face as he took a certain one into his hand.

“These here,” he said as held up a stem with three leaves, each of which was further divided into three leaflets, “almost got me reported to the government a few years back. When my sons lived up here, before Harm bought the land so we could all move away, I'd work the table at the farmer’s market sometimes. I got to know this fellow in the next booth, an odd little man that everyone called Organic Bob, and we'd talk about different things, sometimes give each other seeds or plants. Then one day I brought him some of these
Giersch
, a tough little potherb that we bring with us everywhere, we plant them in the shady areas around our homes. He'd given me some kind of Asian scallions to grow, and I liked them, so I thought I was doing him a good turn.”

He shook his head and stirred the pot with a stick.

“This fellow went into the most hysterical lecture about the dangers of invasive plants, how I should never grow them, like the world was coming to an end. He never touched a spade in his life before college, I don't think, and now he's wagging a finger at me! I played along, I know a tyrant’s toad when I hear one, so I pretended that he opened my eyes to the evil of this dangerous plant. Even so, I was worried he'd report me.”

“He never did, I take it?”

“No. He reported himself. When the eco-police issued their expanded list of banned species a couple of years ago, he thought they'd grant him special permits because he was such a good little citizen. He didn't understand the real purpose of it all. So they came for the comfrey he grew for his compost, and for the tansy in his insectary hedges. And then they found, besides those, that he was growing unlicensed, unregulated old vegetable kinds, besides. They doused it all with glyphosate. And heaped some huge fine on top of that, which put him out of business.  Organic Bob had a nervous breakdown, from what I heard.”

He tossed the leaves into the pot and stirred again.

“I should probably say he got what he deserved.  But I hate to see the power come down on anyone.”  He stroked his beard and sighed.  “You can't escape the feeling that you could be next.”

Erin sat down on a chair near the table and placed Hughie on her lap.  Bern stood and went back to the cabinet.

“I hope he has salt here,” he said, rummaging through assorted cans of food.  The trill of a chipmunk in the distance caused him to pause and listen; he quietly returned to the porch and unslung the weapon from his shoulder, raised a finger to Erin in reassurance, and disappeared into the thicket.

A few minutes passed; the time seemed agonizingly long, and she listened anxiously till he reappeared from the other direction.

“All clear, it seems,” he said with a forced smile.  “I suppose I should stop talking so much, so I can listen better.”

“I wish I could just feel safe again.”

“Yeah,” he said wryly, and renewed his search in the cabinet.  “Maybe soon.  But for now, at least, I found the salt!”