Chapter 25
The glass shattered beneath the spade. Underneath the sheath of Medusa poison, I could see sandy soil. Since I was six months pregnant, Rebeckah forbade me from doing any of the shoveling, so I held the thin trunk of the sapling. Rebeckah hadn't even wanted me this close to the remaining glass sections of the kibbutz. But I'd kicked up a fuss, and, more practically, promised to wear the heaviest radiation armor we had.
Leaning into the shade from the hot sun, I could smell the bay leaves. I had to be here. After all, we were dedicating this tree to Michael. Looking across the compound I could see the other trees the kibbutz had planted, each dedicated to a fallen soldier. Daniel's sturdy oak had been our first experiment, and it was recovering nicely from the shock. We'd miscalculated how much extra sun and heat the glass would reflect, but now each of us took turns checking the soil and watering diligently. It would survive.
As would we. Rebeckah had formed the kibbutz at the edge of the glass city. Most of the complex was surrounded by a domed radiation shield, and we were slowly breaking up the glass perimeter. For every section of glass we broke, we added trees.
A red flash at the corner of my eye informed me the page had a message. I flipped the go-ahead switch.
Hey, home, I greeted the image of the page that popped into view. He affected his feminine aspect today, and wore colored robes that covered everything but a slit for the eyes.
Hey, girlfriend. Tell Rebeckah we've got company. Travelers at the door.
Tell her yourself, I said with a smile.
You're the sysop for the compound. Dee. You do it.
Sweat rolled off Rebeckah's back as she heaved another spadeful of dirt out of the glass, oblivious to our conversation. The muted light from the nearby plasti-shield cast strange-colored shadows along the curves of her muscles. We're planting a tree, I protested feebly. You know she hates being interrupted during a ceremony.
Believe me, I know. That's why I'm telling you to tell her. Anyway, these guys can't wait. They're demanding religious asylum.
I stood up straighter, nearly dropping the tree. The leaves shook noisily, and Rebeckah looked up from her work.
Asylum? I repeated. Who are they?
You've read about the prophet, right? the page asked me. Lately, I'd been notorious for not scanning the news. After Mouse's arrest and since the Times had run the article exposing Letourneau as another of Mouse's constructs, I'd stopped LINKing to the news and entertainment band altogether. Truth was, watching the 3-D replay of the police hauling Mouse away had filled me with guilt. I hated feeling that way, so I stopped watching the news.
News about the prophet, however, was hard to avoid.
After everything that had happened, Americans were skeptical about any talk of a messiah or a Second Coming. The LINK raged with debate. No one wanted to be duped again, and so the prophet had been branded an outlaw.
Though I'd never seen a vid of him, I'd heard all about his philosophy. From everything I'd learned from Michael, it hadn't been too far from the truth, as I understood it anyway. Still, no one liked to hear the truth, and everything the prophet said managed to piss off one faction or another. No wonder he was seeking asylum here; our kibbutz, like the Malachim before, was known for its open-door policy.
Let him in, Page. Rebeckah and I will meet him in the mess.
Rebeckah leaned against the shovel, eyeing me suspiciously. "Who was that?"
"Page. Apparently, a prophet is at our gate."
Rebeckah nodded and wiped the sweat from the back of her neck. "I hope you let him in."
"We're meeting him in the mess."
With a gesture, Rebeckah handed the shovel to another. Even though she no longer led the Malachim, she continued to have the ability to command with a look. It took me longer to find someone to relieve me of my burden. Finally, after handing off the tree to a disgruntled volunteer, I trotted to catch up with Rebeckah.
"You know, most people wouldn't make a pregnant woman scramble after them."
"Have you seen him speak?" Rebeckah asked, ignoring my whining.
I shook my head. "I stay away from newsvids, remember?"
"You've never even seen a picture?"
"Sure, I've seen a picture. I'd have to be dead not to have seen at least some things. You ask me, he looks like any other scruffy-looking Jewish guy claiming to be a prophet." I didn't tell Rebeckah, but the prophet's gray eyes had struck me. Even in the holos of him, they'd seemed deep and intense.
Rebeckah laughed. "I guess so. He's got an interesting group of followers, though."
We reached the mess hall. Most of the kibbutz was carved out of the glassed remains of the city. We had destroyed most of the taller buildings, but this section of brick row houses was too beautiful and too historic to bulldoze. Patiently, people had been chipping away at the radioactive glass to reveal the perfectly preserved woodwork and stone. Some of the bricks had enough sand content that they were permanently transformed to glass, so the sun caught squares here and there along the tight line of buildings.
He stood up as we entered, those piercing gray eyes raising to meet mine. He'd cleaned up from the last vid I'd seen. Dark curly locks were cut in a martial style that took my breath away. A shaven face revealed the planes of his face, sharp enough to cut.
"Michael," I breathed.
As he looked at me, his gray eyes not quite comprehending, a wind shook the air between us.
I felt the baby kick.
About the author
Lyda Morehouse was born in 1967 in Sacramento, CA, which might explain her strange first name, except that her parents swear they were NOT hippies (beatniks, maybe, but NEVER hippies.) Plus, her folks came to their senses after only a few months under the California sun, and moved to LaCrosse, WI. Lyda spent her formative years in that magical town where three rivers meet, nestled in the valleys of the "driftless zone."
She moved to the Twin Cities in 1985 to attend Augsburg College, (not, unfortunately Oxford, which so many of her friends misheard "Augsburg" as.) While the college didn't particularly impress her, the Cities did, and she settled permanently there when she and Shawn Rounds bought a house in Saint Paul in 1997. Minneapolis/St. Paul is a haven for writers, especially science fiction writers, and Lyda would recommend it – winters and all – to anyone, anywhere.
At Augsburg, Lyda received BAs in English and history, despite the fact that everyone, including many of the department's professors, thought she was a studio arts major. Their assumption wasn't completely without substance as Lyda does dabble in the visual arts. Though she briefly sold some of her work as tarot greeting cards, these days, she mostly sketches the occasional "stud" or comic book superhero. However, she teaches cartooning on a semi-regular basis through Eden Prairie Community Education.
On August 5, 2002, Lyda became an "ima" (Hebrew for mother) to Ella Durene Mae Morehouse Rounds. Ella was stillborn, but she lives in our hearts. If you want to read about Ella, please check out Ella's page. We tried again as soon as Shawn was physically able, and we are now the proud parents the best little boy in the universe, Mason Gale Morehouse Rounds, born July 24, 2003. Lyda legally adopted Mason on December 5, 2003.
Lyda is currently attempting to live the life of a full-time writer. Due to the recent budget crunch in Minnesota, Lyda was recently laid-off from her job at the Minnesota Historical Society.