Terah waited for Moby to continue. Instead, he said “Your secret. Did you see her?”
The thought of Lindsey with Hagrid stabbed him. “No. But I was led here.”
“It’s against the rules, but if you don’t mind my asking…”
“I’d had a fright. Some dogs down by a road. I ran into a pine grove and lost my way. Then I heard something. Footsteps. I didn’t see anyone, but I could hear them just like I hear you. Not knowing where to go, I followed them. They led to your stream and followed it until I saw this place, the mill.”
Moby sat in silence. “Most interesting. And only a couple of days after Claresta returned.”
“You and Hagrid gave her your house.”
“We’re allowed to talk about happenings here—that’s what the gathering’s all about. Claresta had been here before. Maybe three years ago. We gave it to her then. Told her it was hers whenever she came back.
“There are homeless women, of course. More than we like to think. Claresta’s the only one who’s come here. We figure it’s because the girl only appears to men. Claresta came here from—I’m forgetting the rules. Anyway, I wonder why she didn’t show herself to you. But you heard her?”
“To be fair, it’s a little difficult to tell with footsteps.”
“But nobody else has come here without her guidance. Except Claresta. We couldn’t ask her story—we had rules—and Cicero knew that a single girl, a young one at that, had to be protected by law. You see, we are civilized here. She was in pretty rough shape and decided to tell us what happened. She never said another word about it afterward. As you might guess, Char’s a real favorite with the guys. She’s punchy and independent. Tough. Stayed about a year and said she needed some space. Vince thought maybe the other girl was trying to drive her out.
“Anyway, when she was here the first time we set up facilities for her. Respected her privacy. We really wanted her to stay. She was in no danger here.”
The picture stuck in Terah’s head like a pornographic image. Young Lindsey here with a bodyguard of protective men. All of them chaste but hopeful. She, for whatever reason, asexual. Insisting they honor their own laws. And this was years before he found her. He wasn’t the first man she knew.
“I don’t have to tell you, I’m sure, but there’s no creeping around at night. You can go to the john, or even Hooper’s and nobody’ll question you. Make tracks to Claresta’s and, well, we have strict rules.”
Darwin from Mr. Hooper’s sat next to basins with water heated from the central fire. “We keep the cans after we clean them,” Moby instructed. “Plates and fine silverware go over here.”
Moby returned to his house and the afternoon stretched out long before Terah. He’d meant to ask for the diary, but he didn’t want to overstay his welcome. Not a good way to become part of the community. Of course he wanted to hang out with Lindsey, and he could use his injured leg as an excuse. But then, nobody else knew they’d been together when it happened. He walked along trying to remind himself who lived where.
Hearing a sound of human activity behind one of the houses, Terah went to offer help. It was within the spirit of Dickinsheet. He recognized Vince by his salt-and-red-pepper hair and beard. The artist was swinging a axe wildly and Terah recognized splitting wood when he saw it. “Can I help?” he called out. Nobody wants to surprise an artist with an axe in his hands.
“Cal, is it? Thanks for the offer.” Again the axe flew wildly and Terah kept his distance. “But this isn’t as simple as it looks.” He took another whack. Then he rested the axe, breathing hard, and beckoned the newcomer over.
“I’m sure I can help split wood.”
“Thing is, even this produces art. All art is temporary, and these logs, before they burn, are art.”
“What do you mean, all art is temporary?”
“Billions of years from now,” Vince said, gathering the logs, “the sun will explode and burn out.”
Terah picked up the pieces. “And?”
“And earth will be charred into a cinder. No human art will survive. All traces of our having been here will be wiped out.” Terah followed him to Hooper’s Store. “Wood goes back here.” A room was dedicated to tinder, kindling, and fuel, carefully separated out.
“Are you in charge of the wood?”
“Nobody’s in charge. I went outside to feel the sun—you can feel it even when it’s cold like this. Your face, if you hold still, and pay attention, will feel its kisses. Then I realized it was a fine day for replenishing fuel.” Outside he pointed to the woods all around. “We have a pretty good natural supply, but a blizzard blows through you’ll want a good deal at hand.”
“So everybody chips in.”
“Sure beats using money. Money has ruined civilization, just as art preserves it. Come on in.”
When Lindsey had introduced him around, Vince had come out to his porch. Stepping inside took Terah’s breath. The modest front hall and living room were completely covered in castaway art. Terah knew from experience that crowded spaces often looked just plain trashy, but this man had arranged trash so that it was beauty. Plastic pull tabs and lids in repeating patterns created flowing effects, as mellifluous to the eye as Mozart was to the ear. Vince had even arranged a couple chairs in the center, like a museum. Guests could sit and contemplate. Small bits of detritus purposefully arranged had somehow become art.
“If any kind of material is going to outlast our species it’ll be plastic,” the artist noted.
“Wow,” was all Terah could say.
“It’s all in how you look at a temporary world. My work never made the galleries. I was okay with that because teaching undergrads was cool. They didn’t question much. Til one religious kid objected to having to paint a nude woman with a live model. You didn’t ask—I’m telling you. ‘Sexual harassment,’ they called it. What kind of religion objects to nature’s own art? You can’t find a job with that on your record. No college’ll touch you, so to speak.”
Terah was about to speak when he spied a charcoal drawing in the next room that buckled his knees and caused him to collapse onto Vince’s chair.
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