August Ansel - The Attic

Most of the house was now rotted plywood, exposed lathing, and dangling silver runners of insulation. Huge banks of solar panels on the roof were connected to nothing and were buried under layers of rotting humus. Wind blew in through unfinished ducting and conduit. They’d hung whatever they could find to cordon off the mess, and still had four whole large, functional rooms to live in. Still, Arie was eager to put it at their backs.

Now the two women finished tying their bedrolls. Renna hummed a little tune while she worked— Frère Jacques —something she often did unconsciously these days. Talus galloped in from outside, smelling strongly of forest duff and unwashed dog. She wore the saddlebags Arie had made the night before the fire, and she looked ready for an adventure. Curran and Handy came in after her.

“Packs are ready,” Handy said. “The sun’s well up—better we move.”

“One second,” Curran said. He leaned Pop’s old backpack, its faded blue now blotched and smeary gray, against his leg. He fumbled with a zippered front pouch and pulled out a square piece of wood. This he handed to Arie. “From your house,” he said.

It was redwood, smooth and velvety to the touch. Six inches square, a half inch thick, the color of whiskey and old wine. Though it carried a trace of smoke smell, it was unburned. On the face, a mandala was etched, a small symmetrical path that wound in to a center point, out again. He’d somehow stained the meandering labyrinth a darker shade of red. On the back, two words carved in neat block letters: I SOJOURN.

She placed the gift flat against her chest and held it over her heart, over the place where the third null sign was etched into her skin. She looked up at him, wanting to say some word of thanks, but words failed. He smiled, satisfied, and hoisted the backpack onto his shoulder. “Come on, Talus,” he said. They went out into the brightening day together.

Arie glanced around the enormous room. Her eyes lingered on the jade figurines, docile and transcendent on their glass shelves. The only things of theirs remaining were two tight bedrolls. “That’s it, then,” she said to Handy and Renna, who stood waiting for her. “Let’s go.”

Handy grabbed the bedrolls and they followed Arie out onto a huge flagstone veranda. The inside of the mammoth house was a half-finished shell, but no expense had been spared on the outside. Curran stood at the top of a stone stairway, throwing a stick for Talus. She chased it easily, as though her overloaded saddlebags were stuffed with feathers and cotton balls. Handy and Curran had tied their own bedrolls to their packs; Renna, who could now walk with barely a trace of limp, wore hers and Arie’s, bound together across her shoulders.

Arie, finally able to bear the weight of Granny’s old wool coat but not much else—not yet—took the sharpened walking stick Handy had made, one for each of them. The short spear was tucked through her belt, and Curran’s gift snugged neatly into her coat pocket.

They walked abreast down the quarter-mile of gravel drive, stopping twenty feet from the gate that let out onto the frost-heaved and weed-raddled two-lane thoroughfare, once called Old Arcata Road. Handy eased up to the gate, looked for a long time in every direction. Though it was chilly, the vegetation all around them drenched and dripping, the sun shone in a remarkably clear sky. He motioned to them, and they all crossed the road, silent but for their gritty footsteps, throwing long shadows across the tired macadam.

Just visible across a wide, overgrown pasture was the highway. There were no morning commuters. No sixteen-wheeler ground its jake brake as it came across the bridge into town. No farmers hauled hay to their dairy cows, and not a single small plane cruised in the brilliant October sky. There was only birdsong and these five travelers. They climbed a short bank on the far side and made their own path into the trees beyond. They belonged to each other, and would travel north along the coast, then bear east as well as they were able.

North and east to God’s Land.

THANK YOUfor reading After the Pretty Pox !

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Until next time:

Make peace, share love, read books.

SHADOW ROAD

After the Pretty Pox: Book Two

In this first sequel to After the Pretty Pox , Arie and her close-knit band travel on foot, finding their way to Arie’s childhood home in the mountains. Battling the hardships of this exposed life, Arie, Handy, Renna, Curran, and good Talus will come face-to-face with other survivors of The Pink.

How radically has the world has changed, out on the Shadow Road ?

Available Fall 2016

First thanks go to first readers: Allen Chamberlain, Christina Gillen, Jamie Jennings, and Sylvia Mann. Their critical input, observations, and encouragement were constructive, spot on, and eminently useful. Even though he’s a very good guy, Randy George let me lend his middle name to a very bad dude—I’m afraid we haven’t seen the last of Russell, Chief of the Konungar.

Another big thank you to cover designer Dominika Hlinková with Inspired Cover Designs: talented, intuitive and very patient; and to the hardworking team at Red Adept Editing for pointing out where I zigged when I should have zagged. Dale at Biolitestove.com helped me with a question about their cool little biomass-powered camp stoves; and Brandon L. Browne, Associate Professor of Geology at Humboldt State University, took the time to tell me all about the composition of boulders in and around the Humboldt County area—complete with amazing color photos. Giant huzzahs to the Bodacious Vanguard for their enthusiastic support: readers rock the world, and my readers are simply the best.

As always, the biggest thank you is reserved for Mr. B, who believes. My hero.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: August Ansel is the pen name (and alter ego) of author Carla Baku. It’s August who is forever wedging beloved dog-eared novels by Shirley Jackson, Peter Straub, and Joe Hill in among the works of Toni Morrison and Tobias Wolff. Working from a tiny garret overlooking the lovely Myrtle Grove Cemetery, August prefers to write novels longhand while sipping bitterly strong tea and wearing an atrocious pair of bedroom slippers.

Readers are most welcome to peruse books and stay in touch:

@augustansel