The Lost War, Karl Gallagher [recommended reading txt] 📗

“Let me try something.” Newman slid a knife blade under the bark on one of the split pieces. He moved along the edge, producing a strip an inch wide and ten feet long.

“Bark is brittle,” said Sweetbread.

“The outer bark is brittle. Inner has flex.” Newman ran the back of the blade against the strip. Grey bark flaked off, leaving a green ribbon.

Sweetbread felt the end of it. “That we can work with. We’ll need to braid it.”

“Hoy, make way!”

The shovel crew was getting close. House Applesmile cleared the wood from the marked path. Then they stood back to stay clear of the dirt flung by the shoveler.

***

Newman chewed his bite of roast venison slowly. Rain pounded on the roof of the pavilion. He’d go hunting in a drizzle but there wasn’t any point to it in this downpour. He couldn’t see far enough to shoot anything.

His stomach wanted the whole bite now. Newman did his best to stretch it out. Sweetbread only carved three ounce chunks off the roast. With no idea how long the rain would last the household’s food was being rationed.

The royal decrees issued since their arrival commanded everyone to not waste calories on unnecessary activity. So calisthenics were out as a way to pass the time. Newman was helping Goldenrod with her embroidery project, passing her a new spool of thread whenever she changed colors.

Sunlight penetrated the white canvas of the pavilion. On a sunny day the inside was well-lit as a good workroom. Today the rainclouds left it gray but there was still enough light to see by inside.

Subtle color differences were hard to make out in the gloom.

“This is tan, I need light brown,” snapped Goldenrod. She shoved the spool back at Newman.

He set his jaw and silently offered up his second guess. She took it with a grunted thanks.

Normally Newman would go for a walk when he felt this cranky. Slogging through the mud now wouldn’t improve his mood. This was the third time he’d held back from responding to one of her remarks. He didn’t want an argument. Nobody else wanted to listen to it either. Sweetbread had already stomped on some bickering between Shellbutton and Pinecone.

Eight people didn’t crowd a tent this big . . . until no one could escape it.

Goldenrod left her needle stuck in the fabric as she rubbed the back of her neck. “I’m sorry. I have such a headache. I shouldn’t be so bitchy.”

Mistress Tightseam looked up from her knitting. “When did you have your last soda?”

“Um, day before yesterday I guess?”

“Caffeine withdrawal. Unpleasant, but it’ll pass.”

“Oh.” Goldenrod looked down at Newman. “Sorry.”

He smiled. His hands mimed a neck rub.

She shook her head. “Thanks, though.”

There wasn’t really room to do massage anyway. They’d have to rearrange all the gear dragged in from outside to let people sleep.

A gust lifted the roof of the pavilion. Ropes creaked as they pulled taut.

Sweetbread stood up. “I don’t like that wind. Pass me the long rope.”

Redinkle produced the coil from a corner. Sweetbread unrolled it. He tossed the middle up several times. Finally it caught on a hook hanging from the ridgepole. The switched-off battery lantern dangling from the hook swayed as the rope brushed it.

“Pernach, Newman, take the corners.”

Newman moved to where he was pointed.

When the storm began they’d staked down the walls. Two tent stakes had been kept aside. Now Sweetbread tossed them to the younger men.

Pernach pounded his stake into place. To Newman’s relief the three pound sledgehammer was passed hand to hand across the tent instead of being tossed.

Once both stakes were placed Sweetbread flicked the ends of the rope to them. “Tie ‘em off. Not too tight. Just enough to keep it taut.”

Newman realized why they were doing this. The edges of the roof were held down by rope, but the center just had the weight of the ridgepole holding it down. Now the rope would add more tension.

The rain kept pouring.

***

Goldenrod led Redinkle and Shellbutton into the chiurgeon’s tent. It was packed solid. The air was hot with too many bodies in too small a space. The trio sat at Lady Burnout’s feet. There wasn’t any place else to go.

The messenger had asked for them by name and not said the purpose of the meeting. Goldenrod scanned the faces she could see from her position. All female, and none over thirty.

A few more women came in on the other side, squeezing the standers closer together.

“That’s all we’re going to get, I guess,” said Lady Burnout. “I don’t want to give this speech again, so you pass it along to anyone who missed the meeting.”

The whispers in the back died down.

“We’re in a disaster,” continued Burnout. “A slow motion one, but we’re going to lose people. We need to bust our butts to make sure we don’t all die.” She paused.

“There’s certain psychological reactions that kick in during disasters. One is pairing up. There’s already gossip about that happening. No shame, it’s normal.

“The next is having babies. Some on purpose, some because you’re too infatuated to think about consequences. More because there’s no way to get birth control refills in the wilderness.”

That sparked some nervous chuckles.

“Now. I will take it as a personal favor if nine months from now I’m not running from tent to tent trying to deliver twelve babies at once. You will want to have your babies some time when you can have my whole attention.”

A short haired woman stood up, pulling her friend up with her. “Then we don’t need to be here.”

“Sit down, Carnation,” snapped Burnout. “My pediatrician friends have dealt with plenty of lesbian parents.”

They sat.

“So. If you have pills, keep taking them. Same with caps and