It was coming on frost. Karl knew it with all his senses as he turned northward out of his lane and onto what was still called the Old Milford Road, though it was barely a cart trail now. He'd farmed all his sixty-eight years, and was as fit and fine a man as you might want, for his age. He'd been born here, at Headwater, in Prince Edward County, in 2043, just as the Long Troubles were drawing to an end in the Americas. Karl Hillier was the patriarch of an extended family of five couples, including himself and his wife Angelina, their married children, grandchildren, and his aged mother Sarah; four generations of Hilliers and twenty-three mouths to feed, in all.
The farm at Headwater provided well enough for them all, with good harvests for the last several years. By law, they would have to keep at least a year's worth of food in storage, some as grain in the attic that he had built when he first married, some as various dried and preserved nuts, meats, fruits, berries, vegetables and legumes in Angelina's pantry off the kitchen. The Elders might order the distribution of stored food throughout the County, or its collection for shipment to some hard-hit region in a famine year, though that rarely happened anymore.
Headwater Farm also boasted an ancient but ample root and wine cellar, with the drying attic over, and most precious, the original attached greenhouse for fresh herbs and a few greens in winter. There was a good barn and stable to feed and shelter the draft horses, oxen, and the lambing sheep through the coldest months, a solid hen-house, a pigsty and a drive shed. He and Angelina had been happy here, raising their family and building up the farm; it would be fifty years together next Midsummer's Day.
The Troubles had never been as dangerous in this rural peninsula as in many other places. Lake Ontario and the Bay of Quinte had kept most of the epidemics and lawlessness out. The droughts and great storms rarely struck, and the waters, air and soils were clean and healthy for the most part. This was largely the sheer luck of geography, of course, which Canada had in plenty. The remarkable political and societal resilience in the County was due in part to the Transitioners, so called, who had organized and preached for years in preparation for the tribulations that they knew were coming. Many here had paid heed, for the farmers, tradesmen and professionals of the County were down to earth, community-minded folk.
The Hillier family lived in the unusual solar house that Karl's great-grandfather Rob had built a century ago, on 35 acres of abandoned farmland. Family legend held that had he built it to last three hundred years. Old Rob had planted the first nut trees and vines of a permaculture and agro forestry farm, in order to avoid the worst of the coming hardships. Old Rob had been quite the prognosticator.
Soon after the great house was complete, the oil wars had erupted, embroiling the entire globe. Sarah's father, Grey Otter, a full-blooded Mohawk, had been a great one to sit with Karl around a fire and talk about his adventures as an officer of militia during those times of the Long Troubles.
It was an ironic turn of history that the County folk and the Mohawks, ancient Loyalist allies, had once again fought side by side, against the same enemy, while the motives of the antagonists had completely reversed. Their Loyalist ancestors had supported the Crown when the Americans had revolted against the oppressive British oligarchy and founded a government of the people. The Loyalists, on the losing side of the Revolution, had fled north to settle the near-empty wilderness of British Upper Canada. Two and a half centuries later, the Mohawks and the men of Prince Edward County had born arms again, protecting their small, and by then intensely democratic communities through the Long Troubles brought on by the insatiable greed of an American oligarchy.
Though, to be honest, there was no war here in the County. Defense was more a matter of vigilance, and preparedness of the militias, and ensuring that radio communication remained functioning, than of outright war. The everyday work of the militias was garrison duty at highway checkpoints, guarding the harbor at Picton, bringing in refugees to the town, escorting food shipments, and ordinary policing.
Occasionally, though, roving bands of brigands or pirates posed a threat to the County or to the Mohawk at Tyendinaga, across the Bay of Quinte. The ragged, wretched bands were easily detected and would without fail walk into a trap, where a show of arms from the militia and the promise of fair treatment generally persuaded them to drop their weapons and throw up their hands. Few were foolhardy enough to open fire on the militia; of those that tried, it was short, grim work for the Mohawks and the County men to cut the better half of them down, while the rest gave up or took to their heels.
Truth be told, man for man, there isn't a better fighter in the world than a Mohawk. The County men are good soldiers too, many of them part Mohawk, and marksmen, every one of them. All young men go through six months of militia training. It's still the law to this day.
"Yet, 'tis a grievous thing to kill a man; it sickens the soul for ages, no matter how right and necessary it may be at the time" Karl's own father, Young Rob, had revealed a few years before his death.
Young Rob had ridden with his father-in-law Grey Otter in the militia, and one encounter had gone awry. A cocky pirate band, well-armed and fired up with drink, had slipped ashore, and promptly stumbled into the militia patrol. The pirates had brazenly tried their luck, which ran out in minutes. Rob and Grey Otter between them had shot down or killed, hand-to-hand, four of the criminals that morning. Two County men lay dead, with many others injured, including Young Rob who suffered a bullet low in the thigh. Dead and dying renegades were strewn like flotsam in the clearing, while carrion birds circled patiently overhead.
Karl remembered his father's words still, "There is gore aplenty in war, son, but there is no glory." The memory of needless death and a permanent limp stayed with Young Rob for the rest of his life.
While the County men and the Mohawks had dealt with a few pirates and brigands, the wider world had suffered the drawn-out catastrophe of the Long Troubles, in a hundred different agonies, and within a generation, two-thirds of humanity had perished. On damned near half of the Lower Forty Eight of the former USA, a person couldn't grow much but cactus, it was said, as the drought was so hellish.
The wonderful machine called the global economy had run ever and ever faster to the only conclusion its flawed design of exponential increase allowed. It had torn itself apart, reduced into a smoldering ruin scattered around the planet; death, devastation, plague, pestilence and poisoned land, air and water its inevitable legacies. The mad oligarchs who had designed and operated the insatiable, ravenous juggernaut had vanished, along with their chimerical wealth. The oil wars had virtually exhausted the remaining oil, and destroyed the once mighty militaries of the world. Every source of natural wealth on Earth had been left crippled.
The most comprehensive history written of that tragic first half of the twenty-first century is The Long Troubles, the Agony & Collapse of a Global System, by the great historian and Gaian philosopher Michael James. Just reading the chapter headings is chilling in itself.
For instance,
Chapter 1.Unsustainable Inequity: Planetary Plutocracy and Mass Despair.
Chapter 6. Climate Tipping Points & Effects: Coastal Inundation, Drought, Floods & Megastorms.
or
Chapter 11. Global Resource Wars 2003-2043: the Middle East, Africa, Southern Asia and the Americas.
The reader is grateful to be alive when she gets to the end of the book.
Chapter 21. Safe Havens: Mountainous Coastlands and Inland Seas.
Chapter 22. Philosophical, Religious and Political Regeneration: the Gaian West, the New Buddhist East, and the Christian Caritas Movement in Africa.
Around the world, the survivors began to rebuild their lives in a world that had changed forever, and of necessity, if human society was to continue to exist, new paradigms arose to suit the new reality. The County had been fortunate and had been spared the worst of the Troubles, and was early to embrace the Gaian Societies that sprang up in every village and neighborhood. The movement provided the cohesion that held communities and English Canada together. Open to all, the Societies held weekly Sunday meetings that were part spiritual practice, part educational forum, part practical community affairs sessions. Like congregations of the old religions, each Society supported a learned person of the cloth, or Counselor, whose role was to deal with more personal matters individuals or families might have, assign or refer aid to those in need, and to stay abreast of local developments. Every facet of human and planetary wholeness was within the ambitious mandate of the ascendant, vibrant philosophy.
As for weekday life in the County in 2111, there was hardly any diesel to be had, for instance, especially in a remote place like Headwater Farm. What use would it be anyway, with no engines on any farm in these parts? At ten times the price of good aged whisky, diesel was rarely used except in an old municipal standby or back-up engine that would rarely be started. Fuel alcohol was cheaper than diesel per therm, but even alcohol was a good deal more trouble to make than whisky.
Some engines were still needed, of course, in the towns and larger villages, mostly for pumping drinking water or fighting fires. There were no automobiles in use in the County. An automobile was a museum curiosity, like the skeleton of a dinosaur. Most had long since gone for scrap metal.
A bicycle was a far better machine, all round. His sons Luke and Martin had raced off after breakfast on the cargo bicycles loaded with tools, to help their friend Jason put the shake roof on the cabin he was building. The County had granted Jason the usufruct of twenty acres, as he was now a married man and his wife was expecting their first child. His parents' farm was too small to support a fourth family, and the house too small as well. Usufructs could not be sold, a measure taken ages ago to quash speculation in land. Only the cabin and the half-acre it sat upon would become the real estate of Jason and his wife, should they or their heirs give up farming for some reason, and be forced to surrender the greater part of the land.
Karl had gladly taken the horse and cart, as it would serve his purpose and his inclinations better today than a cargo bicycle. He looked forward to a quiet ride alone with his thoughts, free of the constant hubbub of the great house for a few hours. He took a light lunch, and two caged chickens and a jigger of Headwater whisky for barter. He brought his cross-bow as well. His intent was to go salvage some sheet metal to make his wife a new skooker, or failing that, to barter with a neighbor for some metal. He'd have preferred to bring Laddie, his Labrador, along for company but if he found a good quantity of metal there'd be no room for Laddie in the cart on the way home, and the dog was getting too old to trot the ten miles home.
Karl was armed more out of long habit than out of fear of a chance encounter with a brigand. There were few of those who could evade the militia for long. A single tramp might beg for bread, but would not be tempted to robbery, a cross-bow being a formidable deterrent. If it should happen that two or three rough strangers accosted Karl, he'd hand over the whisky and the chickens, and they'd run off, no one wanting a close fight. A slight wound could kill a man, and painfully slowly, too, especially one who lived roughly. Prompt home nursing with herbs, salt and hot water was about the only treatment for infection. Karl had luckily never had to fire a shot in anger in his life. He expected a peaceful outing.
Angelina's skooker! He chuckled to himself at the thought. Just put a pot of beans out in a good skooker on a sunny morning and they'd be done just right for supper. And Gaia, could Angelina make beans! Bless her heart, she could make beans more ways than there were days in the year.
The hilarity of the old skooker's flight made him laugh aloud, recalling it. He had watched in astonishment as the thing had flown clear away like a child's whirligig last week just as Angelina took the bean pot out. It must have gone all the way to Black River because no one ever could find a single piece of it. The wind will just jump up out of nowhere into a wee houligan like that sometimes around Headwater.
Young Rick stoically had received an impromptu lecture from his Grandma for the misdemeanor of letting go of the skooker to chase after a garter snake. Finally the family had settled down to eat, and the beans were good. Everyone laughed about hunting snake for supper, with Rick stoutly defending all virtuous, rodent-eating serpents. The men had joked about the time-saving possibilities of having lunch delivered to the fields by flying machines in the near future, and offered to assist Angelina in any further experiments along those lines.
She had replied wittily in kind to their comical suggestions, "Well, Leon Cresey, ye should make your flying skooker large enough to carry the young lasses along with the meals, for as I well recall, there's as much love play as lunching out under the great oaks at midday." This, with a wink at Karl, who smiled, while Leon reddened visibly as Lise and Meaghan, who each had an eye for the handsome young bachelor, giggled into their hands.
Karl, his grandson Tom, and Leon had built the famous flying solar cooker two years ago in Karl's workshop. They had fashioned the usual ten inch cubic frame of scrap metal to hold the bean pot, of course. The four reflectors, one to a side, hinged at the bottom edges of the frame, and had prop rods attached to each reflector so the cook could adjust the device from time to time as the sun crossed the sky. Leon had suggested an innovation, and they had curved the reflectors to make a pleasing flower-like form that would better focus the sun and also fold up into a more compact shape when not in use.
Leon had come to visit that eventful day and had seen the whirlwind flip the device over and set it spinning. What amazed him though, was how the skooker climbed hundreds of feet in the air, parted company with the houligan, and whirled out of sight. Even with the attentions of Lise and Meaghan diverting him, he remarked more than once at supper that the reflectors obviously had been efficient airfoils, so dramatic was the skooker's flight.
Angelina and Karl both had similar thoughts about Leon and their own grandson Tom. Like peas in a pod, those two. Neither one likely to take up farming, though, and not from laziness. Smart as whips, they were. Leon was soon to become a master mechanic, a valuable trade. Tom's brilliance was in the working of wood, not metal. There was a fine future in cabinet-making, as well. Some young lasses would turn their heads one day, and both young men would be fine catches.
That Friday when Karl took the horse and cart he was planning to try for metal out around the old airfield, where the last planes might have taken off or landed years before he was born. Although probably almost all the aircraft in Canada, despised as useless symbols of vanity and excess, had long since been salvaged, you never knew what bits might yet lie buried in a place like that. It was a good scavenging ground if you knew how to read the grasses and plants. On the way, he'd keep an eye out for some golden thread, which is hard to find, but Angelina insists it's the best thing for what ails the little aches in her joints.
As Karl came around a turn in the trail, his horse balked, and backed. An old coyote, starving and partly blind, by the look of him, was standing there on the trail, sniffing the air. A very dangerous situation, to be between a desperate canine and two plump hens. Karl calmly gripped his cross-bow and brought it up. The coyote lunged and made to leap at Karl but the iron-tipped bolt staggered the beast low in the throat, and it yelped once and lurched away into the bush.
Wrapping the cart blanket around one arm, Karl stepped down and drew his machete. The animal couldn't get far. It was bleeding badly, he saw from the spoor, and within five minutes Karl had tracked the animal to a thicket, where it lay collapsed and panting its last. Wary of the jaws, he crept closer and delivered a quick, merciful stab up into the beast's heart. Quietly, he blessed the coyote's spirit for the gift of its flesh and fur, as its body grew still, then with his hunting knife he deftly field-dressed the warm carcass, and stood up slowly, arching his back and neck to ease the kinks out.
In the corner of his eye there was a bright glint of light, as from a blade, yet steady. Karl's breath caught. He looked cautiously around, then moved with the stealth only a bit of Mohawk blood can give a man, towards the glint in the brush. He was stunned by what he saw. It was incredible, truly amazing.
Overrun with vines, and crowded by trees, a machine rested on the ground. It had to be a machine. Circling it, Karl saw the pattern at last, it was something he knew of , but had never seen before as an entirety.
It was an airplane, maybe thirty feet long, with a wingspan a bit longer. It was silvery-grey in color, as only precious aluminum can be. It had not crashed, it seemed, as the graceful lines and twin propellers were still intact. On the fuselage was painted US Geological Survey. Of course, there was no United States of America any more, just a handful of impoverished republics, except for Oregon-Washington and New England, which had transitioned with some success, and were minor regional powers. So the machine was ownerless.
Karl realized then that he had stumbled onto a small fortune. He excitedly hacked a path to the cockpit. Inside sat the mummified body of the pilot. Gaia! The man's last strength had been taken in landing his plane, thought Karl. Plague or some illness had taken him, surely, otherwise why had the man not gotten out of the machine?
Karl found and wrenched the external latch handle as per the painted instruction and managed to pry the canopy open. At first he ignored the shriveled horror in its tattered coveralls and assessed the contents of the tiny space. There was a small case in a fitted recess that contained a set of curious screwdrivers, wrenches and other small tools. He placed the case on the ground. A larger bag held decayed clothing. He ignored the rags, and, holding his breath, returned his attention to the remains of the pilot.
Insects had carried off much of the flesh before it had dried to a tough leathery mass. Karl had no inclination to take the watch from what had been a wrist, or the wedding band from the finger. That was the property of the man's heirs, if any. From an inside breast pocket of the coveralls, Karl extracted a long wallet, with a corroded zipper stuck closed. He'd recover the pilot's papers later in his workshop, with a drop of oil on the zipper, and maybe one of whisky for himself. Karl brought the wallet, case of tools, and coyote carcass back to his cart, thoughtfully reloaded the cross-bow, and set off for home.
He let the horse take her time, while he sat musing about the pilot's fate, and whatever purpose or happenstance had brought him to his resting place. Karl then reviewed his rights of salvage. Well, no person or government owns that machine, and it is on unused land, so I have a right to it, he thought. And there's no denying that it flew in on the wind!
Karl was a not greedy man, who was? Greed was abhorred as a grievous failure of character throughout most of the world since the Troubles, and here in the County as much as anywhere. Had not an epidemic of human greed and vanity brought on the wars and nearly destroyed humanity? A greedy man or a vain woman was soon cured of error. The community could not afford to tolerate selfish behavior, it was a matter of survival for all.
Still, only a fool would refuse such a gift from Gaia!
No, Karl was fair, just, hard-working, and never begrudged a neighbor help or the Elders access to his grain attics in time of need. He had served as an Elder himself. An honor, yes, and work without any material gain, as was proper. But he was a husband, a father and a grandfather. A treasure like this would help keep the family secure in these uncertain times. The delicate part of the matter, of course, would be to take the machine to pieces and bring all the useful parts home, bit by bit, without others getting wind of it and maybe raising a fuss, or attracting brigands. That was one advantage in being off the beaten track.
It was Angelina's lucky day, as well. Before the light faded, he spotted a good clump of golden thread by the side of the trail. Harvesting one plant in ten, careful to tease out the delicate golden roots, he blessed each plant he took. Neither he nor any of his family would take from this special place within the next three years, for the herb was slow to spread, and scarce. He placed the herbs in his sheepskin sac, and quickened his pace homeward.
As he turned onto his own lane, the sun settling into the forest behind him, he felt more excitement than he had in years. Angelina would be pleased to have the golden thread for a healing, soothing tea. She'll give him a tender morsel from the pot tonight! Later, after
they retire to their quarters, she with her tea and he with a glass of Headwater whisky, to talk of the day and the morrow, he will tell her of his amazing discovery. She will have some good ideas about how to manage the salvage work.
At the farmyard, his sons were washing up for supper. Karl climbed down a bit gingerly, for it had been a long day. "Luke" he called to his eldest, proffering the limp coyote, "Skin him quick, would ye, lad? We'll not steal your supper on ye! Ma will stew him tomorrow." The animal's gift would be honored, though personally, Karl would prefer a well-fed wild turkey any day to a tough, half-starved coyote.
Luke and Martin thus occupied, Karl released the hens, unhitched the horse and put him to stable, then stowed the cart. The tools and wallet he put safely away in his shop, and he brought the golden thread inside the great house.
The women and older girls of the family bustled from kitchen to great room, preparing for the evening meal. Angelina was at the woodstove, seasoning a stew. Dumplings bubbled in the gravy.
"I've a gift for ye, love", said Karl coming up behind her, laying his hands on her shoulders and kissing her gently on the neck. "Golden thread, and a good quantity, too, for your wee aches."
She turned, spoon in hand, "Why thank ye, Karl", she said, "you're ever the thoughtful man. But what kept ye so long?"
"A coyote, the lads will be but a minute with it. And something else I'll tell ye about later. Ah, what's that smells so good? Turkey?", he teased, an old joke between them.
"It's a tiny bit of lamb ye savor, and plenty o' barley, ye old turkey, yourself! Go on and wash up!"
The Hillier clan, for that's approximately what it was, five families in the house that Old Rob had built for just two people, gathered for dinner in the great room that lay the length of the south wall of the house. Five large windows pierced the thick wall. The room, like the rest of the house, had a simple strength and a generosity to it, and nary a draft. Old Rob had been a careful architect, putting his resources into firmness, commodity, and delight, without ostentation.
The house had a reputation as being one of the most comfortable in the County. People said it heated itself. In fact it did, and that was one of the many things Robert had been trying to show people when he first built the place. He had designed with the flows of wind, rain and sun in mind, with rainwater tanks beneath the main roof, and solar panels for heating water and making power. Originally there had been a wind turbine, as well. It was inside out, you might think, with the masonry support walls inside, and the framing, insulation and cladding outside.
The house sheltered the Hilliers comfortably, and saved much work, allowing the family to tend to the farming, and to prosper. Karl's workshop, the converted carport, had power to run a variety of tools, making repair work so much easier, a great advantage for the Hilliers, who bartered their repair services with neighboring farmers and craftsmen.
By the time the Old Rob had completed the house, there wasn't much money around for people to build a house like that anymore, and it remained a rare prototype. It had another further advantage. Travellers often stopped off here, partly for the chance to spend a night in the unusual house, partly for the Hillier hospitality. The Hilliers always heard the local news. There was never a sense of isolation at the farm, though the nearest neighbors were half a mile off.
National and regional news and music came through on the ancient Blaupunkt radio, in nightly broadcasts. The family's other evening entertainments might include a bit of music-making of their own. Often it was a round of Ecology, which old and young enjoyed together, building up farms and towns on the playing board, in ingenious patterns, with new rules being constantly evolved to keep things interesting. Each player took a turn to make some improvement to the pattern, as they collaborated to overcome the challenges posed by the dice and the chance event cards.
When Karl and Angelina retired that night to their bedroom, she put down their cups, shut the door and turned to him. "What have ye gone and done? Ye've been grinning like a jack-o'-lantern all through supper."
So he told her about the wonderful machine, its size, its great value, and how he expected the proceeds would help Martin in setting up his own farm, before too long. She frowned slightly. Why was she not delighted?
She took his hands and spoke gently. "Much as I love ye, Karl, I believe you are in error."
"It seems to me to be within the law." he replied, a bit hastily. "What fault do you see in accepting such a gift?"
"Did not the Christ and the Buddha, each perfect in Gaia's grace, not warn of the love of wealth, and teach us rather to love our neighbors? We are rich with love here, and the farm is bountiful. I fear sometimes for the great trusses, our attics are so full! Though truly, I fear for your own good name, Karl, should you try to do this thing in secrecy! This treasure is too great, it is for the Elders of the community to decide the matter. If they deem it to be rightly ours, then so be it."
His wife was a gifted preacher when she chose to be. And Angelina had also served on the Council of Elders, after Karl's term, her industry, good sense and good heart recommending her for the office. He knew she was in the right, and relented.
"Aye" he sighed," I was thinking of our own children, only. Let me go to the meeting tomorrow in Milford then and put my case before the Elders."
The Elders and a few dozen citizens listened as Karl related his astonishing news and stated his case for right of salvage. He handed the Chairman the dead man's papers which identified him as John Marshall Robinson, born 1998, in San Fernando, California, a licensed pilot and senior hydro-geologist in the employ of the US Geological Service. Karl ended his account by noting that should the Council find his salvage claim to be invalid for some reason the finder's reward at least was due him by custom.
The Council brought out a dusty binder and conferred for a few minutes. The Chairman spoke.
"You're a good farmer, a good neighbor and you've served as Elder, but I have to say I'm sorry Karl" said Joseph. "From this flight plan and pilot's license it is clear that this airplane came to rest on about the 11th of September, 2042. The plane was registered and based in California and was en route to Montreal to perform survey work in the Republic of Quebec. Ye'll recall that Canada was at war with the United States in the summer of 2042, while Quebec was neutral." He paused for a drink of water.
All in the room recalled how President Barrett, fighting for his paranoid-delusional political hide while the USA gurgled down the drain, had imagined that the title of Commander-in-Chief bestowed military genius. The Alberta oil sands were shipping less and less crude south each month to the Americans as the great mines and upgrader plants slowly fell apart like every other industry in the world.
President Damon Barrett would teach the lying, inept Canucks a thing or two about Yankee get-go and Yankee know-how, with the help of ten armored divisions massed in Montana, no air support worth mentioning and the Strategic Oil Reserves bone dry. It was logistical, strategic, technological and diplomatic lunacy, of course, but Barrett fired his cabinet and started firing generals until he got action.
Through the hottest spring ever known in Alberta, the tank columns moved north, the outmatched Canadians capable of little more than harassing the Americans while retreating in order. By July, with temperatures at 140 degrees Fahrenheit and rising and twenty hours of sun a day, about half of the tank force finally reached the one operating upgrader plant and encircled it.
Historians still dispute the cause of the massive fuel-air explosion that ensued. The bitumen had already softened so much from the unprecedented weather that the fireball was enough to liquefy about the top fifteen feet of the stuff. The war machines bogged and sunk up to their hatches. Engines, transmissions, and air-conditioners blew under the strain, and the few surviving tank crews emerged dazed from dehydration and heat-stroke to gaze at a fuming sea of blackened sand. The war was over.
It was over for Barrett, too, who collapsed in a mad fit in the Oval Office, and it would soon be over for the USA. The Governors of the States and the Mayors of the great cities conferred while Barrett lingered on in delirium. Three weeks later, Barrett expired. Vice President Stotten ascended to the highest office of what had been the greatest power the world had ever seen, for a term of one day. His only significant official act was signing the Articles of Dissolution. The fifty states would now independently make peace or war, should they choose, including war upon one another. Canadian militiamen still sang a hilarious tavern song about the Alberta war, Barrett's Mutineers, to this very day.
Chairman Joseph continued with his explanation of the Elders' decision.
"From what ye tell us, Karl, of the appearance and markings of the craft, it was government owned, but not a military machine. The Republic of California, which came into being only on August 10, 2042, would be the apparent owner of the plane, upon the dissolution of the United States. However, California has yet to conclude a peace treaty with Canada. We are still at war with California!" he laughed, and the audience laughed along with him at the ridiculous notion of marching across the continent to make war on a few farmers struggling to keep the desert at bay.
"Therefore, by right of Canada and the powers vested in the County of Prince Edward, this arm of Council claims the craft as prize of war on behalf of the nation. Karl, your finder's reward will be paid on the basis of value, yet to be appraised, on condition that ye promptly reveal the whereabouts of the prize to a delegate of this Council, shall we say tomorrow morning, at Headwater. Are ye content?"
Karl nodded, as the law seemed clear. It would be foolish to appeal to the Whole Council.
The chairman had his hands full then, to keep order. Everyone present, it seemed, had an opinion as to how to spend this windfall.
"It should be sold off at auction so we can better equip the militia!"
"No! The library has more need! We must rebuild the roof!"
"The school needs proper windows. It's disgraceful that our children and teachers must suffer so!"
"Cut up the oligarch's chariot for skookers for the poor!"
"It should be made to fly again."
All heads turned to look at the young bare-beard in the back of the room.
He continued "The oligarchs were mad in their lust for power, but their chariots were mere machines. This one, indeed, carried not an oligarch, but a man of science. If we break the aircraft up for salvage, we will lose the knowledge of the thing itself, and knowledge is more precious than any metal. Only so much can be put into books. Sometimes you must be able to see and feel and hear the real thing. If it can be restored, it will have much to teach us. Even our best mechanics who preserve our most important engines have never seen such a machine!"
"The young man makes sense" James, one of the Elders, spoke in a firm voice. He was the Fire-Master and Engine Mechanic for the village, and as such, was highly respected. "Would ye have us fly the craft, lad? Or would ye fly it, yourself? You are Leon Cresey, I believe, apprenticed to Mr. Westburn."
"That is my name, Sir, and yes, I am an apprentice mechanic at Wapoos, I was just passing through Milford to visit my cousin Tom Hillier, when I met his grandfather on his way to the meeting and decided to attend."
Having established his relationship to the community, Leon continued " I believe men can learn again how to soar above the earth. Surely not in the same manner as the people of the Oil Age who went mad with power. I am not mad, but I have a dream. The birds soar with only food for energy. So why should men not learn to soar again? This airplane, I think, will help guide us in the founding of a Gaian science of flight. I volunteer to pilot the craft if it can be made to work and I am deemed worthy."
And so the thing was decided, all present formally assenting, except Leon, his status being that of guest, not citizen of the township.
The ancient airman was buried with due respect alongside other long-deceased flying men, at the tiny cemetery on the bluff overlooking the harbor. There was always a broad view of the sky to admire from that spot; it was a fitting resting place for the aviators.
The aircraft was gently freed from the vines and brambles seeking to pull it back to Earth. Beneath the seat were found the complete manuals for the airplane's maintenance and operation, safely preserved.
On a crisp November day, Karl drove his prize oxen and drew a great wagon bearing the airplane, with militia gaily riding escort, and so brought it to the harbor town of Picton. With much fanfare, a team of mechanics rolled the craft into the ancient armory through the great doors. Many people, including Angelina, came to marvel at the wonderful machine. Karl had brought with him the case of tools which he had first found in the craft, and handed them to James, who examined them appreciatively. The first young ewes had been delivered as part of his finder's reward, and it was then that he remembered the tools and brought them with him on the journey. James asked if there was some way they might recognize Karl for his exemplary act of citizenship? Karl spoke quietly in reply, and James nodded.
The skilled workers, Leon among them, labored for months, under James' direction, as much as their other duties allowed, carefully dismantling and rebuilding the engines, a most delicate and challenging task. They refurbished every other part, cable, wire and servo in the craft as the manuals advised. The expensive fuel was slowly stockpiled, a quarter gallon at a time, until an operational minimum was obtained for a demonstration flight. Word of the machine spread around the County, and beyond.
Learned professors of diverse disciplines, from Queen's University at Kingston, took boat passage to Picton, curious to examine the antique craft, and to offer advice and assistance on its resurrection. Leon was keen to speak with these men, as his ambition was to complete his apprenticeship, and then enroll at the university, and study mechanical engineering. Tuition was expensive for the towns, and only a few of the best young minds could be sent each year to study the sciences.
The professors were excited, helpful and encouraging, as they told Leon of their work. Some were experimenting with growing photovoltaic films in various baths of microbes and yeasts. Long distance transportation was a problem many of them faced. A geological survey aircraft, such as this, for instance, could greatly increase their understanding of the state of the remote Arctic ice-fields, so important to the healing of the planet's climate. The professors would make requests for funding, should the craft be capable of flight, as it had been noted by the federal government as a national scientific asset.
Finally, on Midsummer's Day, when all the citizens gathered at the fair grounds to picnic, socialize, and celebrate the End of the Long Troubles, Leon taxied from the makeshift hangar along the turf track to his starting point, turned the craft about, then pushed the throttle forward with a great roar, gained speed, leapt into the air and circled round the town once and then down to a perfect landing in front of the wildly cheering crowd. There was a hero's reception for the pilot on the shoulders of his friends. Karl and Angelina looked on. It was a doubly special day for them. Karl had one more gift for his beloved. She saw with delight, painted on the airplane's fuselage, the name Angelina.
Leon had experienced the thrill of flight, and the adulation that followed. He had no use for fame. He preferred to bend his mind to understanding the properties of matter and energy and the living world. He knew that heavier than air machines powered by liquid fuels would never be built again, not in his lifetime. It would likely be centuries before mankind could replicate the energy content of such fuels to any great extent. And the Angelina, though a beautiful artifact, was a remnant of an era that had passed, never to return. Flight in the future would be of a different form.
Karl's find had been serendipitous; it had brought Leon's dream closer to fulfillment. James had spoken last week on Leon's behalf to the Whole Council; Leon would enter university at the sophomore level, and accompany the Angelina on her voyage to Kingston.
Yet Leon had never spoken of his dream in its entirety to anyone in the County, even James, for fear of ridicule.
Leon, like many a young County lad, had grown up with the water and the wind. Kite-flying, sailing and swimming were his pastimes as a boy. He always marveled at the power of the wind, and the ingenuity of the sailor's craft in harnessing it, noticing how the lines of the hull were so crucial for speed and stability. He delighted in the strength of his own body when swimming, especially fully underwater. He had even devised goggles and flippers to explore this new underwater world. He wondered at the movements of the various fish, with their sudden power and their languid grace.
One summer day last year, while underwater watching the effortless maneuvers of a rock bass, a germ of an idea had come to him. He had almost forgotten to surface, he had been so enthralled.
He had hurried home to find his notebook and had begun to write.
Fish are in their element, birds in theirs. Humans run on two legs on land, as do large flightless birds. Hawks and vultures circle for hours with little effort.
He had felt doltish, writing down these axioms and yet he had continued.
The first secret was in the power to weight ratio, so a lean athletic pilot was paramount.
Could a hydrogen bladder be built that would buoy a man up, reducing his weight? In the shape of the body of a bass, perhaps? Could the strength of a man's arms allow him to control his motion?
Could wings of film allow him to rise on a thermal like a hawk? Should the wings also be buoyant? Or only the wings? How would he build up speed for take-off? Could the power in his legs be somehow used for climbing and cruising? Perhaps he would need a high place for take-off? Or a catapult?
As the Midsummer sun set, Leon looked through his old notebook. The dreams of a flying suit seemed those of a much younger Leon. He had grown wiser in only a year. Yet he would not set the dream aside, so potent was it. Soon, he would be in the company of the best men and women of science in the nation, where his dream would find succor. One day humans would soar again, he felt certain, and he would be a part of the new science.
There was much to study, so many questions. Yet Leon was determined to find the answers, and build his dream. He was confident that for every question that he asked, Gaia had already prepared an answer. It was merely a matter of patient study and observation to uncover it.
Another axiom presented itself to Leon: Wisdom came with age, and both wisdom and knowledge had the greatest value only if shared widely. The nation's scientists and statesmen therefore had the greatest need of the gift of flight in order to spread and increase their wisdom and knowledge. Such were Leon's practical, reasonable, thoughts on the matter. Inspired, he quickly sketched in his notebook a vision of a larger craft for several people, and then laid down his pen.
The memory of the magnificent thrill of piloting the Angelina, with the expanse of the sky and the land and the waters before and beneath him, the uncanny responsiveness of the craft to his every intuition and whim, flooded over Leon. It had been only for a brief few minutes, yet.... he had flown! He, Leon, had received an unforgettable gift of unparalleled rarity! He had flown!
He studied his sketch, and fell into his familiar reverie.
To travel hundreds of miles a day on the winds like an eagle! What wonders one would see! What far-off lands and peoples one would visit!
What a wonderful machine it would be!
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