"Weren't you wonderful?" Len murmured.
"Don't be an idiot," I said. "Those people were willing to follow an 18-year-old girl because she seemed to be going somewhere, seemed to know where she was going. People elected Jarret because he seemed to know where he was going too. Even rich people like your dad are desperate for someone who seems to know where they're going."
"Dad wanted someone who would protect his investments and keep the poor people in their places."
"And when he realized that Jarret either couldn't or wouldn't do either, he left the country. Other people will turn their backs on Jarret, too, in different ways. But they'll still want to follow people who seem to know where they're going."
"You?"
I sighed. "Perhaps. More likely, though, it will be people I've taught. I don't really have the skills that will be needed. Also, I don't know how long it will take to make Earthseed a way of life and the Destiny a goal that much of humanity struggles to achieve. I'm afraid that alone might take my lifetime and yours. It won't be quick. But we'll be the ones who plant the first seeds, you and I."
Len pushed her black hair away from her face. "I don't believe in Earthseed. I don't believe in any of this. It's just a lot of simplistic nonsense. You'll get killed knocking on the doors of strangers, and that will be the end of it."
"That could happen."
"I want no part of it."
"Yes, you do. If you live, you'll accomplish more that's good and important than anyone you've ever known. If you die, you'll die trying to accomplish it."
"I said I want no part of it. It's ridiculous. It's impossible."
"And you have more important things to do?"
Silence.
We didn't talk anymore until we came to a road leading off into the hills. I turned to follow it, ignoring Len's questions. Where was I going? I didn't know at all. Perhaps I would just have a look at what lay up the road, then turn back to the highway. Perhaps not.
Hidden away in the hills, there was a large, two-story wooden farmhouse set back off the road. It was much in need of paint. It had once been white. Now it was gray. Alongside it, a woman was weeding her large vegetable garden. Without telling Len what I meant to do, I walked off the road, went to her, and asked if we could do her weeding for a meal.
"We'll do a good job," I said. "We'll satisfy you, or no food."
She stared at us both with fear and suspicion. She seemed to be alone, but might not be. We were clearly armed, but offering no threat. I smiled. "Just a few sandwiches would be awfully welcome," I said. "We'll work hard for them." I was dressed in loose clothing as a man. My hair was cut short. Len tells me I don't make a bad-looking man. We were both reasonably clean.
The woman smiled in spite of herself—a tentative little smile. "Do you think you can tell the weeds from the vegetables?" she asked.
I laughed and said, "Yes, ma'am." In my sleep, I thought. But Len was another matter. She had never done any gardening at all. Her father hired people to work in their gardens and orchards. She had thin, soft, uncallused hands and no knowledge of plants. I told her to watch me for a while. I pointed out the carrots, the various green vegetables, the herbs, then set her weeding the herbs on hands and knees. She'd have more control over what she pulled that way. I depended on her memory and her good sense. If she was angry with me, she would let me know about it later. Raging at people in public wasn't her style. In fact, we had plenty of food in our packs, and we weren't yet low on money. But I wanted to begin at once to reach out to people. Why not stop for a day on our way to Portland and leave a few words behind in this old gray house? It was good practice, if nothing else.
We worked hard and got the garden cleaned up. Len muttered and complained, but I didn't get the impression that she was really suffering. In fact, she seemed interested in what she was doing and content to be doing it, although she complained about bugs and worms, about the way the weeds smelled, about the way the damp earth smelled, about getting dirty. . . .
I realized that while Len had talked about experiences with her family and with the servants and experiences with her kidnappers and with living on her own, scavenging and stealing, she's never talked about working. She must have done some small jobs for food, but working seems still to be a novelty for her. I'll have to see that she gets more experience so that even if she decides to go off on her own, she'll be better able to take care of herself.
Later in the day, when we had finished the weeding, the woman—who told us her name was Nia Cortez—gave us a plate of three kinds of sandwiches. There was egg, toasted cheese, and ham. And there was a bowl of strawberries, a bowl of oranges, and a pitcher of lemonade sweetened with honey. Nia sat with us on her side porch, and I got the impression that she was lonely, shy, and still more than a little afraid of us. What a solitary place the old house was, dropped amid grassy hills.
"This is beautiful country," I said. "I sketch a little. These rolling hills, blond grasses, and green trees make me want to sit drawing all day."
"You can draw?" Nia asked me with a little smile.
And I took my sketchpad from my pack and began to draw not the rolling hills but Nia's own plump, pleasant face. She was in her late forties or early fifties and had dark brown hair streaked with gray. Drawn back into a long, thick horsetail, it hung almost to her waist. Her plumpness had helped her avoid wrinkles, and her smooth skin was tanned a good even brown—a nice, uncomplicated face. Her eyes were as clear as a baby's, and the same dark brown as most of her hair. Drawing someone gives me an excellent excuse to study them and let myself feel what it seems to me that they feel. That's what sharing is, after all, and it comes to me whether I want it or not. I might as well use it. In a rough and not altogether dependable way, drawing a person helps me become that person and, to be honest, it helps me manipulate that person. Everything teaches.
She was lonely, Nia was. And she was taking an uncomfortable interest in me-as-a-man. To curb that interest, I turned to Len, who was watching everything with sharp, intelligent interest. "Wrap up a couple of sandwiches for me, would you?" I asked her. "I'd like to finish this while the light is right."
Len gave me a sidelong glance and used paper napkins to wrap two sandwiches. Nia, on the other hand, looked at Len almost as though she had forgotten her. Then, in a moment of confusion, she looked down at her hands—tools of work, those hands. She seemed more contained, more restrained when she looked at me again.
I didn't hurry with the drawing. I could have finished it much more quickly. But working on it, adding detail, gave me a chance to talk about Earthseed without seeming to proselytize. I quoted verses as though quoting any poetry to her until one verse caught her interest. That she could not conceal from me. To her credit, it was this verse:
"To shape God
With wisdom and forethought
To benefit your world,
Your people,