Chapter 22

The noonday sun did not seem to affect the kids playing on the grass in front of the buildings. Porter could feel the expanse of heat beating down on them as he sat in the shade of the porch. The wastecat next to him was panting in her sleep to expel the heat from her body, her tail twitching once in a while to chase away annoying insects.

Porter watched his youngest son and his daughter run among the other children with carefree abandon, their cries of joy and play carrying across the expanse. It was not Porter’s job to keep an eye on all of the children, but the sounds of their play were irresistible to him and he often emerged at noontime to watch them. Their games brought a smile to his face and a remembrance of an innocence that he had once had. ‘This is a good place to be a kid,’ he confirmed for himself on many a day sitting in the rocking chair. He would rub the dry skin of his toes together as he sat barefoot moving to a slow quiet rhythm.

Zeb sat in another chair on the other side of the doorway from Porter. His job was to watch the children at play and to keep them from wandering off into the woods or climbing too high into the old spreading tree. The grizzled man was too old to continue to travel into the Waste, yet he was also too vital to simply be put out to pasture. Thus he became the shepherd of small children during the day and the purveyor of scary tales at night.

“Grandpa!” cried little Adriana, “Evgeni threw my dolly in the tree again!”

Zeb muttered to Porter as he got up to fish the dolly out of the tree with a staff, “Your kids are the worst brats of them all.”

“That’s only because they take after you,” Porter called after him.

Adriana had grandpa wrapped around her little finger and the old man loved every minute he was with her. She was named after his own daughter, who perished many years ago. The story was a typical one of Anshar but one Zeb had not shared until Gilly announced that she was pregnant with a girl.

Zeb had lived on the plain of Timisoara, a minor merchant of wares who had been blessed with only one child, a daughter. When she reached the age of her first menses, her gift of Blue Hand made itself known. Two months later the priests came in the night and set fire to their home. Both his wife and daughter were trapped by the flames. Their modest house of everything worthwhile in their lives became a funeral pyre. Zeb, out of his mind with grief, fled eastward. Seasons later, he settled the land half a day’s walk from the Waste where he could live alone and unmolested. He could not tolerate the presence of most people anymore. He became a hermit, traveling to the village of Edgewood only when supplies were low.

Evgeni was named after Porter’s grandfather, more out of a sense of obligation along with a vague memory of a kindly old man. The boy was a mischievous ball of energy and a constant headache for his mother and father. Of course, the beaching of the doll on a tree branch may have been merited by the covert machinations of his sister, but Porter imagined it would be years before Evgeni realized he was being manipulated. He would learn.

Porter’s thoughts turned to his eldest son, Petre, named for Gilly’s father who had died some years ago. Petre, considerably older than his younger siblings, had reached the age of consent. He did not have a girlfriend yet, although a few around the compound had made known their interest. Unfortunately, he had inherited a certain sense of obliviousness from his father.

Petre’s lack of skill with the young women was not what worried Porter. His son had requested the final exam of mastery of the Blue as was his right. His mother was nearly frantic at the request and Porter had been at a loss for words. Gilly had taken him to task for that for several evenings, but Porter argued that his response had been the right one; after all, Petre had earned the right to make his own decisions.

The final exam was the journey to the center of the Waste, triggering the test, and mastering, balancing, and directing the life of the Garden. While Porter and Gilly had passed the test, many others who came after him failed, losing their lives in the frenzied onslaught. When Porter transported to retrieve the bones of the failed candidate, he usually found little but a scrap of clothing or a shoe, sometimes nothing at all.

Petre had been trained to the best of his parent’s ability. They had taught him and the other teachers had rigorously drilled him. He wanted to follow in the steps of his famous parents and as far as Porter was concerned, he had earned the right. He was a thoughtful young man, not headstrong enough for his mother but more than stubborn enough for his father.