Parable of the Talents

'Acorn is a community of people who have saved one an­other in all kinds of ways,' I told him. 'Acorn is home.'

He looked at me again, then set to work on his dinner. It was late, and I had already eaten. I had taken the baby and gone to eat with Zahra and Harry and their kids. But now, I sat with him, sipping hot mint tea with honey and enjoying the peace. The fire in our antique, salvaged woodstove had burned to almost nothing, but the stove's cast-iron body was still warm and the July night wasn't cold. We were using only three small oil lamps for light. No need to waste elec­tricity. The lamplight was soft and flickering.

I stared into the shadows, enjoying the quiet, family to­getherness, content and drowsy until Bankole spoke again.

'You know,' he said, 'it took me a long time to trust you. You seemed so young—so vulnerable and idealistic, yet so dangerous and knowing.'

'What?' I demanded.

“Truth. You were quite a contradiction. You still are. I thought you would grow out of it. Instead, I've gotten used to it—almost.'

We do know one another after six years. I can often hear not only what he says but what he does not say. 'I love you too,' I said, not quite smiling.

Nor did he allow himself to smile. He leaned forward, forearms on the table, and spoke with quiet intensity. 'Talk to me, girl. Tell me exactly what you want to do in this place, with these people. Leave out the theology this time, and give me some step-by-step plans, some material results that you hope to achieve.'

'But you know,' I protested.

'I'm not sure that I do. I'm not sure that you do. Tell me.'

I understood then that he was looking for reasons to reevaluate his position. He still believed that we should leave Acorn, that we could be safe only in a bigger, richer, longer-established town. 'Convince me,' he was saying.

I drew a long, ragged breath. 'I want what's happening,' I said. 'I want us to go on growing, becoming stronger, richer, educating ourselves and our children, improving our community. Those are the things that we should be doing for now and for the near future. As we grow, I want to send our best, brightest kids to college and to professional schools so that they can help us and in the long run, help the country, the world, to prepare for the Destiny. At the same time, I want to send out believers who have missionary inclina­tions—send them in family groups to begin Earthseed Gath­ering Houses in non-Earthseed communities.

'They'll teach, they'll give medical attention, they'll shape new Earthseed communities within existing cities and towns and they'll focus the people around them on the Des­tiny. And I want to establish new Earthseed communities like Acorn—made up of people collected from the high­ways, from squatter settlements, from anywhere at all. Some people will want to stay where they are and join Earthseed the way they might join the Methodists or the Buddhists. Others will need to join a closer community, a geographical, emotional, intellectual unit' I stopped and drew a long breath. Somehow I had never dared to say this much about my plans to any one person. I had been working them out in my own mind, writing about them, talking about them in bits and pieces to the group at Gathering, but never assem­bling it all for them. Maybe that was a mistake. Problem was, we'd been focused for so long on immediate survival, on solving obvious problems, on business, on preparing for the near future. And I've worried about scaring people off with too many big plans. Worst of all, I've worried about seeming ridiculous. It is ridiculous for someone like me to aspire to do the things I aspire to do. I know it. I've always known it. It's never stopped me. 'We are a beginning,' I said, thinking as I spoke. 'It's as though Earthseed is only an infant like Larkin—'one small seed.' Right now we would be so very easy to stamp out. That terrifies me. That's why we have to grow and spread—to make ourselves less vulnerable.'

'But if you went to Halstead,' he began, 'if you moved there—'

'If I went to Halstead, the seed here might die.' I paused, frowned, then said, 'Babe, I'm no more likely to leave Acorn now than I am to leave Larkin.'

That seemed to rock him back a little. I don't know why, after all that I've already said. He shook his head, sat staring at me for several seconds. 'What about President Jarret?'

'What about him?'

'He's dangerous. His being President is going to make a difference, even to us. I'm sure of it.'

'We're nothing to him, so small, so insignificant—'

'Remember Dovetree.'

Dovetree was the last thing I wanted to remember. So was that state senate candidate that Marc mentioned. Both were real, and perhaps both meant danger to us, but what could I do about either of them? And