The collection of cars sitting abandoned in the dirt lot just south of the community haven’t been started in years. Most have been picked apart, tires taken off, motors repurposed, fuel siphoned. The odds of one of their engines actually turning over seem unlikely.
“Please,” Levi says, shaking his head. “I understand why you all feel so strongly about this. It is a life that we want to protect—a new life—and we value this life more than anything. It is precious and vital to our existence—to our survival. But we have made a decision in living here, separating ourselves from the outside. And we cannot risk the whole of the community for one life.” He walks to the side of the stage, the group following his movements with the turn of their heads. “And yes, perhaps we could provide Colette’s baby with medicines and care inside a hospital, with the help of doctors, but is that what we really want? To sacrifice our way of life, to not let nature decide for us if she should live? Isn’t this what we have dedicated ourselves to: trusting the land to provide for us, to give what it can, and sometimes take away as well.” He breathes and clasps his hands together. He knows the group has fallen still—rapt in their attention, focused solely on him. “Isn’t this the cycle we have agreed upon? We cannot be so selfish to think we can change the course of what is meant to be. This baby was a gift, and not all gifts are meant to be kept.”
A few people fidget in their seats, someone clears their throat just to my right but they do not speak.
Levi lifts his head, looking tired suddenly, as if each word were stripping away a part of him. “Yes, it is a life. But we have lost lives before, dealt with death and grief, even in ones as young as Colette’s baby. This is not a first for us.”
A cool, eerie quiet sinks over the group, as if each of us is recalling some loss: those we have buried in the earth at the edge of the community.
“I know it’s tempting to think perhaps the road is safe after so long, but we have all seen the border trees weeping. The illness still resides in our woods.” He points at the forest to the west, the boundary not far from where we all sit gathered together.
More hush, not even a whisper.
Theo’s back is rigid beside me, hands on his knees, not so much as a flinch while Levi speaks—no recognition that he has done the very thing Levi is imploring us to avoid. And yet, my husband feels warm and alive beside me, not a man with rot inside him.
“Do not judge each day by the harvest you reap, but by the seeds that you plant,” Levi continues. He walks to the front of the stage, eyes wide and bright now. I understand why Bee loves him, why she is drawn to him—his words feel like cold spring water on sunburnt skin. A remedy we all need. “Haven’t we planted seeds here, set roots in the ground for a different way of life? Do we want to go backward now? Rip the plants from the soil and destroy what we have cultivated?”
I find myself leaning forward in my chair. Yes, I think. We have built something here. Something beautiful, and we should not give this up. We should not risk more lives just for one.
There is a long, heavy pause, and I can almost hear the brushing of eyelids opening and closing—the breath weighted in our lungs.
“We cannot risk sending anyone through the woods.” His eyes lower, then lift again. “I am your leader, and I am protecting you now by deciding that we shall not take Colette’s baby down the road, through the forest. I am bearing this burden so none of you have to. Her small, precious life is my responsibility. And I choose to protect the group, protect our life here—this is the sacrifice I make for you all, to take her tiny life into my hands.” He breathes deeply again and brings a hand to his heart, eyebrows curved down, a look of sincere sadness in his dark, unflinching gaze. “Tomorrow night, we will burn sage along the boundary and the smoke will push the disease back into the trees. We will be safe. We will endure as we always have. We will survive.”
A few members whisper softly under their breath, but each word is careful, easily lost to the night air—there are no more arguments of dissent—we understand why Levi has made his decision; we know the burden he bears.
“If you have questions you want to discuss about the safety of our community,” Levi continues, nodding slowly while he surveys the crowd of faces, as if assessing who agrees with him, and who still might not. “I ask that you come speak to me in private, so as not to upset the group.” He lowers his hand from his heart. “For now,” he adds, “let’s keep Colette’s baby in our thoughts and hope that she strengthens in these next few days.”
I feel Theo turn to look at me, but I keep my gaze leveled ahead.
“Now, let us talk of the crops and the summer harvest,” Levi continues, his shoulders dropping, eyebrows lifted. “Henry has some thoughts on the construction of the new drying shed he would like to discuss with everyone.”
How swiftly the topic has shifted: We’ve moved on to other things, the daily workings of life within the community, the changing seasons, the harvest, the effort just to stay alive.
But my heart is beating a hole through my rib cage. A knowing rising like bile, a ticking in my eardrums: My husband could be immune. And if he is, he could save Colette’s child.
But first, he’d have to confess to what he’s done.
And face the ritual.
THEO
The sky turns dark, a mantle of clouds swallowing up the evening stars and laying its weight over the trees. We are still seated around the gathering circle when the first snap of lightning tears apart the horizon and turns everything briefly white-blue.
Someone shrieks; a baby starts to cry.
“Move quickly,” Levi says, his voice booming over the thunder. “We need to get indoors.”
The gathering has not yet ended—there was still talk of the harvest and a new drying shed to be discussed—but the weather has descended over us without warning, air shivering with electricity, wind gusting through the crop fields, and the group scatters.
The rain imminent now.