washed against verdant green like two different oceans crashing together. A little white church sat at the center, small cottages radiating outward. Cheery smoke tumbled up from their chimneys. Connelly felt he had never seen a happier place in his life.
“This is it,” said Roosevelt faintly. “This is my little safe haven.”
They came into the little village and made for the church. A festival of some kind was going on. Green and yellow streamers hung from the streetlights and somewhere someone was playing a flute. They walked through the streets until they came to the front of the church where a large crowd was arrayed on the city block. They could not see much of what was going on but at the center was a dead gray tree, yellow and green streamers hanging from its limbs. At the tips of the limbs green boughs from other trees had been tied on.
They stayed at the fringes until they were spotted by a churchman. Though they expected him to be wary and distrustful like all other folk they had seen he instead walked over and politely asked, “May I help you?”
Before they could speak Roosevelt said, “I see you make the dead tree live. May it live long and lasting, should you water its earth well.”
The churchman’s eyebrows rose and he looked at Connelly and the others with surprise.
“You’ll have to excuse our friend,” said Pike. “He is a little addled. He has recently had an accident so at times he is not unlike a child.”
“You all have been traveling long?” asked the churchman.
“Yes. Very long. Very long indeed. Our friend stayed here once as a child and… and we thought it would do him some good if he came back.”
The churchman looked at Rosie a long while and he seemed to find something in his face. “Ah, yes. I-I do recognize him here. It’s in his eyes, yes. I see him there.” He beamed at Connelly and the others. “Here. Here, you all look hungry and troubled.”
“Yes,” said Hammond. “Don’t mean to cause any commotion, but it’s been a while since our last meal.”
“Oh, well then, we’re just about to have a dinner of our own, and we’d be more than happy to serve you as well. It’s a holiday for us, and I’d be ashamed to turn away hungry guests,” he said. “I’m Pastor Leo.”
They walked through the crowd of people. Connelly noticed that all who turned and looked at them smiled widely and waved.
“What celebration is this?” asked Connelly.
“We celebrate the close of the fall months,” said the churchman. “Winter comes. Harvest. We have a lot to harvest and lot to be thankful for.”
“I notice this land seems healthier than most,” said Pike.
“It’s because of the way the rain catches on the hill,” said the churchman. “We manage to get just enough to keep ourselves growing no matter what state the rest of the nation is in.”
Peachy looked at the slopes about them. “That don’t seem right,” he said to Connelly. “This seems to be the dry side, ’less I’m mistaken.”
Connelly shrugged and they continued on. The pastor said his hellos to those he walked by and each time the people would greet Pike and the others as well, welcoming them to their town and touching them upon the shoulders. They had not been so warmly greeted by anyone in weeks, months, perhaps years. Hammond was so overwhelmed he stopped and turned away and rubbed the mist from his eyes.
“Dear boy, are you all right?” said Leo. “Oh, I can’t imagine what you’ve seen out upon the road.”
“I’m fine,” mumbled Hammond.
“Don’t you worry. Don’t you fret any at all. All that’s over now, now you just come on with me and I’ll see you right.”
The pastor led them toward the church and down into the back where there was a small gathering room. Long tables lined each of the walls, all of them laden with crock pots and dishes and platters, all steaming. People in church clothes moved from dish to dish, chatting and drinking before moving out into the courtyard. The rich scent of butter and cheese and baked bread filled the air. Roast pork and casserole and steamed vegetables and soups. The room was so laden with the promise of succor that it was nearly painful.
The pastor sensed their discomfort with the crowd and filled a basket and led them to the corner of the courtyard where they could sit alone in the shade. They undid the cloth covering and took rolls and cheese and ate. The very taste of each was so strong it hurt. Hammond began weeping again.
“This is so nice,” he said. “This is so nice.”
Connelly did not say anything. He was watching a small girl in a green dress dancing across the courtyard. She carried a short stick with a little toy blade at the end. It resembled an axe or perhaps a scythe of some sort. More streamers ran from its top, and she twirled it like a baton and sang, “Reap day, reap day.” Then she saw Connelly and the others. She grinned but there was no mirth in it, no joy. Her eyes shone like black buttons and she laughed and Connelly was reminded of Roosevelt grinding the mouse’s head into the road.
“They all got long sleeves,” said Peachy.
“What?” said Pike.
“They all got long sleeves on,” he said again. “It’s hot out. Just seems odd.”
“These are formal people. Might I also remind you that we wear long sleeves as well?”
“Yeah. But the clothes we got is all we got, so the more the better, yeah?”
“Yeah,” said Hammond.
Roosevelt said, “Water the earth. Water it deep. Wake the roots that sleep in sunless places. And eaters all up their strange fruits that are growings. All the dead that slept before, the roots eatings them up good and plenties and growings them up again.”
“Jesus, Rosie,” said Hammond. “Knock it off.”
“Waterings it deepenings,” murmured Roosevelt. He became enraptured by a fly and caught it in his hat. Then he buried his face in his hat and giggled.
The pastor came to them again when the afternoon wore on and led them to a small room in the church where other men in suits waited. Other churchmen, deacons of this little parish, perhaps. This little slice of paradise buried in the toes of the mountains.
“These are men of my church,” said the pastor. “They noticed you and were moved by your state and wished to see you.”
“We don’t get many drifters here,” explained one of them. “Nor do we hear much news.”
“We don’t know much news,” said Pike.
They laughed. “You know more than us, I bet. We don’t even get telegraph out here. Used to, once. Line broke down a whiles back.”
“What news I know isn’t the type I’d like to share,” said Pike. “I’d no more infect a man with typhoid. You are happy here, I’d not spoil that.”
“Please, sir,” said the pastor. “We just want to know.”
Pike shook his head. “Well,” he said, “I suppose I could try.”
Pike told them the best he could. He spoke of the desperation that ran wild just beyond the borders of this town. Of Hoovers bigger than even this village, stretched along fresh water or whatever resource could be found. Rumblings of war in strange places. Children with arms and legs like twigs and stomachs swollen with hunger. States that had not seen rain in months and so were half blown away by now, dissolved by the furious winds. A broken world of wandering and refuse.
He spoke of the now. Of this moment which they all now felt was penultimate. They lived in a dead and dying age. Already they were but memories for the future.
The pastor and his men became very grave. He nodded. “Change is here,” he said.
“Well, I hope it’s change,” said Pike.
“We all do,” Hammond said.
The pastor considered something. He said, “I suppose in times like these a man must do whatever he can to survive. To keep his family and those he loves going.”
“No one could disagree with that,” said Pike.
“They could. Somewhere someone out there is robbing another man for a day’s survival. That man who is robbed, that victim, he would disagree.”
“He would take if he could. Rob and steal. If he could get away with it.”
