14

It was well past moonrise when Caleb returned to the wagons. Zeke lifted his rifle in a silent greeting. Caleb was exhausted. The day lay on him like a weight. “Can you stay on guard a while longer? I don’t think I can keep my eyes open.”

“No problem.”

He pulled his bedroll from the back, settled it on the earth by the rear wheel, and flung himself down. “Give me an hour.”

But the moon had set when he rolled over and sneezed. Zeke was still seated on the front wagon’s seat. Only now there was a little girl asleep on the bench beside him. “Her name’s Alisha,” Zeke said quietly.

Caleb washed his face and poured a mug of treacly thick coffee. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I’m good.” He climbed down, careful not to disturb the little girl. “She had a brother, small like me. The militia took him.”

“Which one?”

“She doesn’t know. But it wasn’t long back, so it was probably Charlotte.” He glanced back. “They’ve been on the road so long she doesn’t remember her home anymore. It really bothers her.”

Zeke took two long breaths and was asleep. Soon after, the little girl unraveled herself from the blanket, looked sleepily at Caleb, then climbed down and walked back to her family. Caleb watched the slumbering camp, took a walk around the cottonwoods, exchanged a quiet hello with the camp’s other guards, then returned to the wagons. And reached out.

The act was so natural now, it was hard for him to recall how shocking it had been in the beginning. The first time Maddie had connected with him, he had felt both frightened and extremely vulnerable. The joining had disconnected him from the reality he had always known, and for a brief instant he saw the world differently—not through Maddie’s eyes but rather through her heart. Every time he connected, there was the overlay of her immediate emotions. He knew her fears, her worries, her loneliness, her joy. But beneath this, like a strong current that flowed unseen and yet dominated her life, was her love. For him.

He had grown so accustomed to this, he had forgotten what it meant to be lonely. Now he was cut off from everything he held dear. His family, his home, the enclave. And most of all, from her.

The next morning, Caleb and Zeke hitched their remaining wagon and were off before the other encampments began stirring. This time Zeke rode in the seat alongside Caleb, his horse tied to the rear gate. As the sun rose above the eastern hills, their wagon crested the rise and passed over an emerald meadow filled with the scent of wildflowers. The road then ran through a break of pines bent and stunted by storms. It seemed to Caleb as though the trees spoke to him. Telling him that the beautiful morning was a myth, that storms were brewing, strong enough to blast him into a new and unwelcome shape.

They left the trees behind, and still the brooding alarm did not retreat. He felt increasingly consumed by a fear he could not even name. Finally he reined in the wagon, stood on the seat, and searched in every direction.

Zeke asked, “What is it?”

“I have no idea.” A faint breeze riffled the meadow, streaking the tall grass with silver ripples. Somewhere in the distance a sheep bleated. A pair of crows rose into the sunlight, scripting dark lines in the sky. “Something’s wrong.”

“Is it Maddie?”

“I don’t . . . No. I’m pretty sure it’s not her.”

“What do we do?”

Caleb reached out, only this time he searched in every direction. It was an unfamiliar gesture. His only connection to what was not immediately in front of him was with Maddie. And she remained silent.

“Caleb?”

He dropped to his seat. “I guess we better go on. Kevin is waiting for us.”

Zeke’s only response was to ratchet a bullet into the rifle barrel and lay the weapon across his lap.

Four miles later the meadow dropped away, revealing a shallow valley that grew steep farther south. The road swept through a tight double bend, once to descend and once to climb back up, with a ford over a small creek at the base. To the south the creek broadened into a muddy expanse that became a lake during floods. The northern reach was rimmed by barbed-wire fence.

The roadblock was a simple affair, a long wooden arm painted in red and white stripes, with a balancing weight so it could be pushed open and a rope to pull it back down. Two bored militia stood to either side, holding rifles with the muzzles pointed at the earth. Parked just beyond the checkpoint stood an open-sided truck rimmed by padded benches. On the truck’s other side was a car. Both the vehicles were painted a glossy black and emblazoned with a shield and two words scripted in gold: Charlotte Militia.

Zeke quietly asked, “Is this it?”

“What?”

“The thing that’s worried you. Is it the checkpoint?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Kind of.”

“That’s not good enough, Caleb.”

“My ability is to find truth in what people say. Sometimes I can move farther out, but always it’s based on words somebody has spoken. That’s it, Zeke. That’s all I know how to do.”

Zeke’s lean features were furrowed with bone-deep concern. “So what’s happening now?”

“I have no idea. This is a totally new thing. All I can tell you is, something is really wrong—”

“Johnny Hayseed!” a man’s voice called.

Caleb straightened as a sentry with sergeant’s stripes on his black sleeves sauntered over. The sergeant wore a bullwhip coiled to his belt. He was grinning, but there was no humor in his expression or his voice. “Where you boys from?”

“Catawba enclave,” Caleb replied as his father had instructed. “Bound for Charlotte Township. My family has been trading with the mayor’s combine for years.”

“You don’t say.” He untied the rope holding down one corner of the burlap. He tossed back the coverlet, surveyed the clay jugs, and turned back to the checkpoint. “You want to check this out!”

A tall black woman pushed herself off the truck and started over. Her lean alertness accented the sergeant’s corpulent bulk. “What’ve we got here?”

The sergeant unstoppered a jug and sniffed. “This applejack, boy?”

“Some of it,” Caleb said. “The rest is corn whiskey and plum brandy.”

The sergeant set the jug back in place. “I believe we’ll be satisfied with half your load.”

“The proper tariff,” Caleb replied, “is ten percent.”

“The tariff is what I say it is.”

Caleb was not budging. “And if you take it now, I won’t be paying another tariff when we pass the township’s real boundary. So I need a receipt.”

The officer’s voice filed down to a steel rasp. “You will address me as Sergeant. Or sir.”

Caleb felt the day’s anxiety coalesce into a burning wrath that seared his throat. “That depends on whether I’m addressing an officer of the militia or a common thief.”

The officer’s eyes glinted with a piggish rage. “Pull this boy down and lash him to the wheel.”

The woman took a step back, disengaging herself. “There are people watching.”

Three wagons were pulled up to the checkpoint’s other side. A dozen or so travelers milled about as their belongings were dumped out and inspected. All activity had halted now, as everyone watched the unfolding scene.

“Who is gonna bother with what a bunch of refugees say? It’s my word against theirs.” The fist kneading the whip’s handle was scarred and warped. “This boy is going to learn manners.”

“I know etiquette,” Caleb replied. “And I know a thief when I see one.”

“We’ll just have to teach you a new tune.” He turned slightly and bellowed, “Get over here and lash this boy up!”

The realization of what he’d let himself in for did not fully register until two officers hauled him down.

“The boy who was riding shotgun has gone missing.” The woman held to her bored tone. “He took his rifle.”

The sergeant whirled about, searched the empty surroundings, then snarled at the watching guardsmen, “You and you. Go find him and bring him back, else I’ll lash you up in his place.”

The ropes bound Caleb’s arms and legs so tight, the wheel hub ground into his chest. He scraped skin off his chin by turning his head. “I’m a lawful trader and I’m filing a protest!”

“You’ll soon be protesting a lot louder, believe you me.” The sergeant gripped the collar to Caleb’s shirt, and in one practiced jerk tore the shirt away. Caleb’s back sweated and ached from what he did not yet feel.

The sergeant stepped in close enough for Caleb to see his grin. He unclipped the whip and flipped it out. He twitched the handle, causing it to writhe black and hungry in the dust. “You ready to sing for me?”

A voice hallooed from the opposite rise. “Hey now! What have we got here?”