E Stricker - The Almanac

He climbed the stairs and faced the crowd.

“I have an idea.”

SILENCE DESCENDED ON the crowd, rippling out from his words like the rings set off by a rock dropping into a pond. A sea of faces turned towards him one by one. He knew that the shock couldn’t last long. He scrambled in his pack for the book.

“I found something. It’s a book, a real book of the Olders. Says how they used to live.” Illya rushed through the words then paused for a second, chewing on his lip before going on.

“I can read it,” he said, looking out at the stunned faces.

“This is how I knew that there was going to be a storm,” he said. “This is what saved all of us, and it’s going to save us again.”

Impiri’s mouth dropped open. Rage flared behind her eyes. The sound of the crowd started to build into a roar.

“Wait, listen! I know that the Olders made some mistakes, but they never starved. Look,” he said. He flipped open the book to the picture of the fat man and held it up high.

People jostled closer to see, for the moment their curiosity overcoming everything else. No one would be able to deny that the picture was spectacular. He saw their eyes widen as the people nearby got a good look.

“This part says”—he sounded out each word, remembering them as he came across them—“‘The best time for planting is in the spring, a few weeks after the last frost. The soil should be workable. Pick an area that gets southern exposure and has access to plenty of water. Consider sprouting seeds in a warm, damp place before transferring them to the tilled soil.’”

The people showed no comprehension of what Illya had said. He may as well have been speaking another language.

“Look at this man. He’s no different than any of us, except that he’s fat.” A few people laughed. Encouraged, Illya went on.

Impiri stood back with her arms crossed, and her lips pressed into a thin line.

“I’ve never seen a man as fat as he is. The Olders did some things wrong, but they always had enough food. Look at this.” Illya held up the page to show them the garden. “They ate plants from a garden, kept animals too. They didn’t have to spend their days looking for food; it was right outside their back doors. That’s why they always had enough.”

“The seeds of the Olders’ plants all died, but these are the seeds of our plants.” He reached into his pocket and held up a handful of the gray, wedge-shaped seeds.

“They will still be the same plants, just the same as the ones on the wall. The same plants that my great, great grandfather, Jones Ph.D. told us to eat, but they would be here in the village. Do you see?”

The people stared at him. His idea was so far from what anyone had ever considered that no one reacted to his words right away. Jimmer stood up, and Charlie let him, their fight forgotten. Jimmer wiped a smear of blood from his lip and advanced on Illya.

“You want us to be Planters?” he said. “You got some idea from a bunch of dead people, and you think that we should just do it.”

“We are going to starve,” someone said. Angry muttering surged up from the crowd.

“Wait! What if there’s something to this idea?” Charlie yelled above the din.

“What does he know? He is just a kid.”

“Garden plants die; wild plants thrive. Everyone knows that.”

“That thing is cursed. That book”—Impiri nearly spat the words—“is the reason for—”

“But these… These would be the same wild plants,” Illya said, stuttering. His stomach clenched into a knot, and his head started swimming as he looked out over the unfriendly crowd.

“He’s the first to go, I say,” Jimmer yelled.

“It’s the way of the devil!” Impiri shrieked.

“How do we know he can even read that thing? No one has been able to read since my grandad’s time,” a man called out.

The villagers shifted, and scowled, their eyes clouded over with uncertainty. They didn’t see a stroke of inspiration, a life-changing idea that could save them. They saw blasphemy and a crazy kid.

Illya’s knees started shaking uncontrollably in the force of the hatred he saw.

“He saved us! He saved everyone from the flood with that book.” It was Benja.

“We’re not falling into an Olders’ trap. Best we keep to our ways, always worked before,” Jimmer yelled.

“Wait, I—”

He swallowed his terror and tried to say something, but Conna Duncan spoke first, cutting him off. Illya’s resolve crumbled.

“What do you know about it? You’re so drunk you can barely see past your face,” Conna said. “If you’re going to throw out the weak ones, you’re going to have to start with your own boy.” Conna mounted the steps and faced Jimmer down. He turned around and nodded at something over his shoulder. A smaller boy came out of the crowd and shuffled up the steps. It was Arro Duncan. He looked very pale, more so than hunger could account for. He crouched behind Conna, as if unwilling to come out of the relative safety of his older brother’s shadow.

“You would know if you paid attention to anything. Boy’s been coughing up blood for two weeks,” Conna said; he looked down and met Illya’s gaze with narrowed eyes. Jimmer pulled his youngest son out from behind Conna, and held him by the shoulders, studying his face with a frown.

Illya broke Conna’s stare after a few seconds. He tried to gather his thoughts. There had to be something he could say.

“I think he’s right,” Conna said.

Illya’s head felt like an empty cavern. The last words he had ever expected to hear echoed around it, bouncing off the walls. Conna gave him a strange half smile.

“Look around you. We’ve been starving for years. We scrape by and get a little here, a little there, but it’s never enough. We lose people every year.

“The Patrollers go out and hunt every day. It’s getting harder and harder to find game.” He nodded to the other Patrollers who stood in a little group nearby.

“We can’t move somewhere else, most don’t have the strength, and there’s nowhere to go if they did,” Conna said. The people were quiet again. They appeared to be listening.

Even for the most irrational, it was hard to ignore Conna. He was one of the most successful hunters they had. With that and the pack of Patrollers behind him, he was growing into a voice to be reckoned with in the village.

“We can’t throw out half of our people. We’ve only survived this long because we’ve stayed together, and I haven’t heard a good plan from anyone until now,” Conna continued. “What he says is true, the Olders may have had their problems, but they always had enough to eat.”

Impiri started to speak, but Conna cut her off.

“We can worry about corruption and repeating the mistakes of the Olders later, if we make it through the winter. Burning things is not going to bring us food.”

Impiri narrowed her eyes.

“Let everyone remember that I said that book was cursed, remember that when the next plague hits us,” she said, folding her arms across her chest.

“It could be a gift from the gods that it was found, it already saved us from the flood, who knows what else it can do?” Charlie Polestad said.

“And it’s another gift that we have someone who can read it!” Conna said. He clapped Illya on the back so hard that he had to stagger and catch himself to keep from falling off the steps. Conna smiled, a tight expression that seemed to hide more zeal than it showed.

“Hear, hear!” yelled Julian Reyes. His words were echoed by several more of the young Patrollers, who had now positioned themselves as a barrier between the stairs and the restless crowd. With an almost maniacal gleam in his eyes, Conna raised his voice.