Through the thin sides of my tent, the sun starts to shine brightly. And with the sun, I rise too. Like I’ve been doing most every day in the month since recovering from the exhaustion of planting the field wore off. It’s not so much that I need to wake up this early. It’s a good long term habit, for certain, but that’s not the reason why I awaken with the first sign of the sun. No, the reason is much more mechanical. It’s a combination of three simple factors. I’m a relatively light sleeper. The land to the east is relatively flat and featureless. And my tent’s thin and light on the sides. Combined, this means sometime around the beginning of civil dawn, one of my tent walls begins to glow bright and wake me up. Getting up, I grab my clothes for the day. It’s starting to get a bit nippy at night. Hopefully that fact will help spur the others to help me. I don’t blame them, of course. Part of the reason they stopped here was to have a slower, relaxing life. Heading outside, I check to make sure the other tents aren’t yet open and then, with a flick of my fingers, I set the campfire alight. Grabbing the pot, I head out to gather some water from the river.
By the time I’m back with the mostly full pot of water, Nick and Cindy are both out of their tents and sitting by the campfire. Nick smiles as I approach. “Of course you already lit the fire and got water,” he said, only half seriously. I always get up before them, due to the aforementioned light sleeper. And he does love to point that out.
I nod with a smile of my own, placing the pot on a rack we have hanging over the flames to boil water and cook food. “Good morning to you two,” I say back.
Cindy stays huddled near the fire. “Bit chilly this morning, isn’t it?”
I shrug. “It’s mostly going to get colder from here.”
“So I take it that means you’re going to be working on the cabin today?” Nick asks.
“Honestly? Not the building side of things. I don’t know, I feel restless. I’m thinking I’ll head out. I think up north west of here on the other side of the river there’s what looked like an old grain elevator. Or, what used to be one, anyways. Should have plenty of material, so over the course of this week we can finish the cabin without needing to take time out for scavenging.”
“Want any help?” Cindy asks. It’s nice of her to ask, even though neither of them could provide much. Not compared to what I can move.
I smile. “Not with my thing, but if you really want to help, getting those posts in the ground and stable would be nice.”
Nick smiled. “I’d ask how you plan on bringing back all that stuff, but I honestly don’t think I want to know.”
I nod. “You probably don’t. Tend to the fields while I’m out today, too,” I add. Taking some of the boiling water in my large thermos, I muddle some old tea leaves and dump that in as well, then seal the container. After a couple shakes to agitate the liquid, I let it steep. That’s my liquid for until I return. The others each take their own thermoses of boiling water for whatever they do with it. Then, Cindy plops into the pot some chopped up potatoes.
While we wait for the potatoes to cook, Cindy stops and looks at Nick. “I think we should set out the rodent traps.” She’s probably right. It’s a little earlier than strictly necessary, but we definitely don’t have the food to last the winter.
Nick groans. “Why? Can’t we just keep eating potatoes and corn and relax? I’ll even make cornbread again.”
I shake my head. Cindy voices my unsaid thoughts. “Alice only planted for herself and maybe an occasional visitor. Unless we want to start rationing our meals a lot, we need to plan for that.”
Nick once more groans. “Fine, but you’re dealing with all the cutting and drying and curing and whatever else you have to do to make that meat not look like it’s a possum or whatever when we eat it.”
“Sure,” Cindy says.
I chime in. “I’ll still take that cornbread, if you’ve got time.” This gets a chuckle out of them.
After loading up my stomach with our morning potatoes, I take a drink of my tea and head out. I’d noticed the place back when I first was getting a sense of the area. And, by noticed the place, I mean, when I’d walked up the river a long way, I saw off in the distance what seemed to be a wrecked, multi-tiered roof of a grain elevator poking up over the landscape. Unfortunately, because of how this local landscape is, it could be anywhere from a couple miles away to a quarter day’s walk. Either way, it’s a start. I begin my walking upriver.
As I find a good fording spot and head across the river, I have an uncomfortable thought. I feel more relaxed now than I’ve felt in days. I want to be done with this part of my life, but somewhere deep inside, I need my wandering. At least now it has a clear purpose. A purpose that is actually achievable. Unlike before. I think on this as I look up at the small broken building poking up in the distance. I remind myself that this is journeying, not wandering. I have a destination, and an achievable goal. And my walking need not be circuitous. Just head there and back. My wandering days are over.
Fortunately for me, the distance was closer to my short estimate than my long one. Three miles or so deep into the land across the river, I reach the building. It’s not as small as I thought it was, but thankfully it is as old. Which means, rather than concrete, it’s mostly wood. Which means it’ll be lighter. Not so light that I won’t need any extra help to move it, but light enough that I might not collapse exhausted once I get back to the farm. I start out gathering the already collapsed bits. Finding the largest fallen siding still intact, I pile up the rest of the wooden planks I can find atop it. Then, all together, I try to drag the pile.
It’s far too heavy to move reasonably. More than enough planks to finish the building, I figure. Taking my knife out from a hidden sheath in the back of my belt, I carefully raise my shirt slightly to reveal my stomach, wrapping it onto itself so it does not move. I don’t want to ruin my third favorite shirt, after all. Slowly, I press the knife against my skin, drawing blood as I drag the blade from right to left, leaving a thick red trail in its wake. Sliding the knife back into its sheath, I take a pair of fingers and trace out the oxen’s legs and horn across my stomach. Or at least, their mystical representation. Then, with a chant, I slide those bloodied fingers briefly over either edge of my mouth, and rub my hands together. I can feel the surge in my body and this time, when I go to drag the pile of wooden remains, it moves with ease.
As I walk the path back to the farm, I can’t help but muse on what is happening. This material was once used for a purpose. To store mass quantities of grain. Then, when everything went wrong it was abandoned. Fell into disuse. Now, rather than make anything new, I decide to take the easy route. To reuse what is already here. Already around me. Repurpose it for what I want. And I wonder, will it always be like this? I mean, it is evident from the enclaves that it is physically like this. The repurposing of what is already around to make new walls and homes is commonplace in this world. But what of the other structures of the old world? Will we rebuild our new society in the likeness of the old one, or simply take what was once there and make something haphazardly that feels more urgently usable? Or will we end up working from scratch, and come up with something entirely new? If I were one of the others, I might be able to work that out. Come up with an answer. As is, I’m not even sure which option I would want to happen. I’m content to simply make my shelter, grow my farm, and live in peace with others who simply wish to exist. Away from such questions.
As I return to the farm, to our circle of tents, it is starting to get late. I use what remains of my tea to wash my face before the others see. My shirt, combined with a slight hunch to avoid any contact, can prevent anyone from noticing the gash across my body, but a pair of bloody lines on my face is somewhat noticeable. Cindy is the first to notice I’m back. “Hey, you’re back early,” she says, looking at the pile of wood. “Good haul?”
“Mostly,” I say, “It’s simply gathering what nature had already caused to fall.”
“Nature, or unnature. With the past few years being what they were, we can’t know for sure,” Cindy offers. She’s right, though she definitely underestimates how long the Quiet War raged.
“What about you?” I ask.
Cindy waves me off. “I mean, I’ve set some traps. Don’t expect any will be sprung for a day or two.”
“Fair enough,” I reply, then, looking around, I add, “What about Nick? What’s he up to?”
She gestured towards the man’s tent. “He’s hard at work doing some preparations for his cornbread or something like that. I don’t know. He took care of the field then locked himself away in his tent.”
“Well, at least you two did the important jobs. I will be forcing you to help me build this cabin every other day this week, you realize,” I inform her.
Cindy chuckles. “I figured as much.” She looks me over, and at the haul. “You just did a whole lot of work. I don’t think I could drag this across our farm, much less however far you ended up dragging it. How on earth do you still have so much energy?”
I’m confused for a moment. Then I realize, she’s right. I don’t feel tired. Not hardly at all. For the first time in a while, at the end of a day of hard work, I feel less like I just worked for a day and more like I’ve been relaxing for it. And with that realization comes another. It’s the wandering. Being on the move, using our old rituals. It’s still relaxing to me. Unfortunately. It causes too much pain to be something I continue to do. It isn’t good. Not for me, not for the world. And yet, still, when I do it, it feels right. Invigorating. I shrug to Cindy and lie, “I don’t know. Maybe it’s something about the air today.” What am I supposed to do, tell someone that a day of walking around and exerting mystical forces beyond myself makes me feel at home? I’d sound like one of the cultists.
“Alright,” she says, “But if you ever do figure that out, tell me. I want to be able to work all day and be cool as a cucumber afterwards.”
“Will do,” I lie again. I scold myself for feeling this good after today. I tell myself all the reasons it’s bad, all the reasons I should stay and avoid the mystical side of my old life. Then, to myself, I lie once more. I tell myself never again.
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