Dennis stood back respectfully as Juniper put a hand to her eyes; he hadn't known them, after all. Then he looked at the animals, and the open barn as she came down from the veranda; he took the keys from her hand.
"I'm sorry as can be about your neighbors, Juney. But we ought to take an inventory. Their family was in Idaho?"
"Farmers near Twin Falls," she said. "Potatoes in a large way; Frank said"-she swallowed-"that he couldn't live without putting in a patch at least."
She went into the molasses-smelling dimness of the barn; Fairfax had opened sacks of feed, and one of kibble for his sheepdog. There were more flats of pelletized alfalfa up in the loft, grain-and-molasses feed and baled hay-old-fashioned square bales, at that.
Not only some stock, but we can feed it, she thought, a huge weight lifting from her chest. There's plenty of grazing here and on my place, and this will keep it over the winter.
The milk would be good for Terry, and Eilir: and perhaps she could try her hand at making butter and cheese, there were descriptions in books she had. A vision of Eilir's face goblin-thin like pictures of an African famine faded from the back of her mind.
And don't Mormons believe in keeping a lot of food on hand? Maybe that's what he meant by emergency stores. The Fairfaxes took all that seriously, I think. I'll look up some Mormons to do the rites their way when I can, she promised herself.
Twin Falls, Idaho, might as well be on the far side of the Atlantic for all the good the Fairfaxes ' family would get out of their stuff here, and they were probably better off than anyone on the western side of the Cascades anyway.
But Eugene isn't that far away, she thought. Dare I go and try and find Rudy? The place would probably be chaos and madness and stalking death by now. But dare I not try, Goddess? Didn 't You descend to Annwyn for Your consort? And there's Chuck, and Judy, and Diana:
Then Dennis burst in, flourishing his ax. "Seed potatoes!" he yelled. "The sacks read 'Oregon Foundation Seed Program Certified Potatoes!' The man must have been on a delivery run when the Change hit; Juney, there's a couple of tons of planting spuds on the truck. And the whole basement's stuffed with canned food and preserves and flour and medicines and seeds and candles and you name it! We're saved!"
She threw herself at him, and they whirled about in an impromptu dance, whooping with glee. After a breathless moment she broke free.
Thanks be, Mother-of-All. I see what You're telling me.
He was still exclaiming and waving the ax when her face went sober.
"What's wrong, Juney?" he said. "We can plant enough potatoes up by your place to keep us going all next winter, if we hurry-and there's enough to feed us all until October in style, too."
"Provided nobody comes up the road with bad intent," she said. "There's an old logging track from the back of the Fairfax place to the cabin. We'll use that up to the cabin, and get things in order. And then we'll start."
"Planting potatoes?" Dennie said curiously.
"We'll start doing what we can for the world."
"For the world?"
Juniper waved a hand at the barn. "The Mother-of-All's been good to us, Dennie. But She's giving us a message, too. We have to pay back, if we don't want the luck to leave us-threefold return for good or ill."
"Whoa," Chuck Barstow said, easing back on the reins. The other two wagons and the walking coveners halted too.
It was a bright, breezy spring day; sixty or a little more, and no sign of rain, for a wonder. The big yellow school bus ahead had swerved half off the road. That was a narrow country two-lane blacktop, fifteen miles north of Eugene and a few east of the I-5. They hadn't seen anything but a few local farmers on foot and the odd horseman for hours, which was a relief.
The wagons could carry a lot, but they couldn't do it very fast or for very long at a time, not without killing the horses. He wasn't an expert-he knew just enough to put the harness on properly-but he knew that, from Juniper's tales of her team and what he'd picked up at RenFaires and Society events.
Faces came to the windows of the bus, and two small figures ran out, jumping up and down and waving their arms at the adults.
Chuck blinked again. It was a boy and a girl, both nine or ten, both in white shirts and green blazer jackets with some crest on the breast pocket, shorts and brown shoes and knee socks. One had tow blond hair and the other dark red braids and freckles.
"Please!" the boy cried. "Sanjay's sick!"
"We're hungry," the girl added. "And we don't have any more water, either. Not good water."
Chuck's eyes flicked to the bus again; Washington plates, and they'd been heading north when things: Changed. Why on this side road and not I-5, the Lord and Lady alone knew.
More children came crowding out of the bus; he counted twelve, all about the same age. Diana pulled up the second wagon, and the coveners on foot gathered around-all the adults had tools over their shoulders, long-handled pruning hooks or shovels or pitchforks. The garden-supply store manager had been willing to accept personal checks; they'd cleaned him out of most of his seed-for plants you could eat-and the tools could double as weapons at need. He thought they might have stopped a few fights already, simply by being there.
It was a new experience, being envied for his wealth; he didn't much like it. The coveners looked at the children with troubled eyes; their own children mostly glared at the newcomers with pack-instinct suspicion.
"Sanjay's really sick," the boy went on.
Before Chuck could open his mouth, Judy was off the bench with her bag in hand. Chuck hesitated, ran a hand over his receding blond hair, then shrugged and followed.
"Dorothy, would you mind watering them?" he asked, in passing.
The horses stood patiently, twitching their hides occasionally or tossing a head in a jingle of harness. Chuck's own nose twitched as Judy walked up the stairs by the vacant driver's seat. Sanjay was at the back of the bus, lying on an improvised pallet of coats and covered with more of the same; the children had made a clumsy effort to clean up the vomit, but he'd obviously fouled himself as well. His clammy, sweating brown face looked at them with bewildered hope-he was South Asian, by the name and the delicate fine-boned features.
Judy knelt by his side; the boy was groaning faintly and moving, clutching at his middle. She brought out an old-fashioned mercury thermometer and her stethoscope and began an examination.
"Mister," the tow-haired boy said. "I'm supposed to give you these."
These were notes. The first was from a Ms. Wyzecki, teacher at St. George's, Washington, in brusque no-nonsense tones: None of the local people know what's going on, it finished. I am going to contact the authorities.
A list of addresses and phone numbers followed. The driver's note was short and to the point: The kids are getting hungry. I'm taking the bike and going to see where the hell Ms. Wyzecki is, or where there's something to eat, or both. If I'm not back by the time you read this, look after them. They're good kids.
The first was dated Thursday morning, the second Friday at noon, twenty hours ago.
"Chuck!"
Judy's voice was sharp, her nurse-practitioner tone. He looked up.
"This boy has a stomach bug-contaminated water. I'm going to have to rehydrate him with a drip, and then he needs to be cleaned up and kept warm. I won't use an antibiotic unless he gets worse-Goddess knows when I can get more. Bring him!"
He did; the other children gathered round him solemnly as he laid Sanjay down on a tarp and Judy began to work.
"He drank water from the ditch when the bottles ran out," the mahogany-haired girl said. "I told him not to."
"Oh, sweet Goddess Queen of Heaven," Chuck groaned to himself.
"Do you mean Mary, Jesus' mother?" the girl asked curiously.