Samuel Florman - The Aftermath

There were about forty men and women gathered for this post-midnight meeting, and the recording secretary recognized all of them, except two who looked like natives from some foreign island—Africans perhaps, yet somehow different. He couldn’t immediately put his finger on it—that is, how they were different—and he was quickly distracted by his father and Captain Nordstrom, who signaled for him to join them.

“Son, we need you to take notes, here, but you cannot share anything about this meeting with your friends, even with Sarah. We must have your word on this.”

“Sure, Dad, but why? What the heck is going on, anyway?”

Dr. Wilson whispered hoarsely: “Just listen and take accurate notes. I don’t mean to be so cryptic, son, but you’ll soon see why.”

Captain Nordstrom was solemn as he opened the proceedings. “I call to order this special meeting of the Expanded Defense Committee, as authorized by the Coordinating Committee. Although Dr. Hardy or I have spoken to each of you privately, I must say for the record”—he shot a stern glance at Wil—“I must say that what we discuss here shall remain completely confidential. We do this not to exclude anyone, of either community, but rather to prevent rumors and alarm from spreading among the people. Is this understood and accepted by everyone?”

Wil Hardy looked up from his notetaking. Expanded Defense Committee? Rumors and alarm? He thought about Sarah asleep in their little shelter. There was something ominous afoot, and he had an urge to run back and hold her in his arms. But clearly he had to stay in place to do his job. He started to scribble in his own form of shorthand, afraid to miss a single word of the discussion.

All of the attendees indicated their assent, and Nordstrom went on: “Several hours ago, two men from Madagascar landed about ten miles from here and found their way to us by following the shoreline. They were lucky they chose to walk in this direction. If they had not—that is, if they had walked north instead of south—they could have been lost for days, or forever. Our security detail encountered them and brought them to me. One of these gentlemen began to speak to me in French, which, it turns out, was the official language of Madagascar during the French colonial period. Neither of them speaks English, so French it shall be. They have been fed and given water. They are exhausted and dehydrated, but otherwise healthy.

“I have asked two of our experts to help us: Richard Frost, a recognized authority on the history and culture of Madagascar; and Rene Picard, a nuclear engineer graduate of the Ecole Polytech nique, who is one of the most eminent members of the French engineering establishment Dr. Picard, of course, is a native French speaker who will serve as our translator.”

“ A votre service ,” Picard said with a slight salute.

Wilson Hardy, Sr., stood and spoke. “These two men escaped from an apparently terrible situation on the island of Madagascar. The young man is a fisherman and mechanic who was able to operate the motorboat that brought them here. The elderly gentleman is Pascal Ralaimongo, a schoolteacher and respected patriarch of his village. We have asked him to describe for us the conditions existing in his homeland. Mr. Ralaimongo, if you please.”

Young Will Hardy, looking closely now at the “refugees,” realized that the facial characteristics he could not quite identify were Malayan, and he immediately thought of the pirate crew that had been described by Harry McIntosh and his fellow fishermen. Yet these two men were obviously not pirates. In fact, both smiled in friendship, obviously grateful that they had made it to this safe haven. Ralaimongo was a small, stooped man, with narrow shoulders and wispy gray hair. He wore a multicolored polyester shirt with long sleeves and only a few surviving buttons. His canvas trousers were worn and stained, and frayed rope held the soles of his sandals to his feet. After expressing his thanks to these kind people, he told them his story, through Picard.

It seemed that the northern part of the large island of Madagascar had been consumed by flames from the sky, and then wildfires had spread through most of the south. As in South Africa, the tsunamis had devastated all coastal communities. But, in contrast to the Ulundi Circle, where farms and livestock areas in the highlands had been spared providentially, in Madagascar the inferno and the floods had destroyed crops and animals as well as people. A group of survivors—perhaps as many as three or four thousand—with Ralaimongo as their designated leader, had tried to make do by sharing the few food resources, while also hunting, foraging, and attempting to recultivate the scorched fields.

However, as if heaven-sent devastation was not enough of a trial, the struggling band of survivors had been set upon by a group of convicts who had escaped from a demolished jail. These criminals—some of whom had been serving time for committing piracy on the high seas—were banded together, ruthlessly attacking and robbing anyone unlucky enough’ to be in their path.

Ralaimongo and his followers were astonished to discover that the villains were led by a young woman, an American who knew their language—among others—and was called Queen Ranavolana, after dynastic rulers of old. Just how she had become a leader was unclear to the schoolteacher. He was impressed by her linguistic facility and her intelligence; but it was obvious that she had more of an affinity for the criminals and pirates than for the general population.

She played on the pirates’ fears and superstitions, encouraging them to believe that she was somehow connected to the conflagration, sent by the Creator to be their saviour. Ralaimongo also questioned her sanity. Was she crazed, unhinged by the holocaust? Or was she totally in control of her faculties, making decisions that only she could explain? Why did she choose to adopt the name of the notoriously wicked queen? And what was the meaning of the red sails, which apparently were colored with paint found in a warehouse, augmented, some of the people said, with blood? What kind of blood? Or worse, whose blood?

The committee members were riveted by the man’s tale of horror, but he was not finished. Picard struggled to keep up and to keep his own emotions out of the translation.

“Iam certain that our escape, Jono’s and mine”—he pointed to the young sailor who had accompanied him on the voyage—“that our action will result in recriminations. Others will pay for our freedom. I regret this very much. However, it was necessary that someone attempt to get away to tell this story, to ask for help. We were told about the Queen’s encounter with your fishermen, which was described to us as if it were a grand military coup. Supposedly, she outwitted your people and took their fish without firing a shot, frightening them into submission.”

At this point, Harry McIntosh, who was included in the group selected to attend the special meeting, jumped up to protest. “She surprised us, yes. But she sure as hell didn’t scare us. I told you, Captain, sir—”

“Yes, Harry,” Nordstrom reassured him. “We know the truth. You do not need to be defensive. Our guest is merely reporting the propaganda as it was related to him. No criticism intended.” He turned to the older man. “Continue, please, sir.”

“Yes, well, she filled the people’s head with nonsense. We two, among many others, could see through her lies and perceive her evil intent. Yet we were frightened and did not know what to do. The Queen was not reluctant to execute any dissenters or so-called troublemakers, anyone who disagreed with her on the slightest matter. And she had the men—these criminals—to carry out her wishes.” Tears welled in the old man’s eyes, then fell down his leathery cheeks. “I have seen many people killed, many good people—without justification, with no trial. My family is gone, all of them annihilated in the disaster that destroyed our island home. I have nothing more to lose. But it hurts me to see innocent people treated in such a way.”