Before closing the door in the cave portal, Winnie faced one last time into the west wind, toward the yellow halo low in the country below near the lake. The luminous arch had not changed position appreciably. In thickening snow and sleet, in ash and dreary pale, the heavy rider on the little craft must be finding it tough going, she guessed. She gave thanks for the snow and the smothering ash. Even though the white crap was falling on the waning days of September, thank heaven for it. Or maybe thank the devil. Thank them both.
Chapter Ninety
Fearing the dank black cave interior, yet terrified of being overtaken by the brute on the mechanical sled, Winnie wedged herself between door and frame and kept a vigil as darkness filled the forest. The storm giving way now fully to crisp white snow, the landscape brightened enough to keep the night from sealing shut the visible world. Some comfort it was to her, being able to see some detail.
Exhaustion made rigid demands on her being. She needed sleep desperately, somewhere safe, someplace she knew. A year ago, at the Total Life Skills seminar sessions, Rough Diamond cabin beside Independency village green had been a simple but comfortable refuge. Make for the cabin, she urged her being, and get there quickly. Safety must be nearby, on the far side of the bluff.
Scrub forest crowded in about the drifted lane as Winnie plodded over the ridgeline to the east. Surely the town’s structures should loom out of the darkness. Winnie gnawed on a knuckle as she made haste.
Cresting the height of land, brilliant lights blazing from greenhouse glass greeted her eyes. Beyond, in the dark, the rectangular edges of architecture mingled with black tree branches. The village was a hand. Desperate to end her twenty-four hour forced march and to distance herself from the fanatic who had given chase, Winnie broke into a run, instinct driving her to find protection.
Along the village green and up to the string of hostel cabins she ran, seeking the little structure she had lodged in almost a year ago. She found the little camp, Rough Diamond, and went inside. The interior was as cold as the raw night. Fumbling for a light switch, she found it and flipped it, but the darkness remained. She groped for the little table she knew was standing in the room, found it and ran her hands over it, searching for the once familiar glass jar candle. Her hands nudged a box full of wooden kitchen matches. Pulling one out, she struck it. This time the matchhead did not somersault away into the void; it flared hot and bright yellow. There was the candle. Placing flame to wick, the paraffin block erupted in light.
A wood-burning stove hunkered in a corner, a stuffed chair nearby. It was as she remembered the arrangement. The wood box contained dry firewood and kindling. There were newspapers on a shelf. All the ingredients were on hand to start a fire, but she hadn’t kindled one since she was a Girl Scout. Like riding a bike, she told herself.
In a minute the Missourian had a little fire rising in the wood stove chamber, but smoke poured out of the door instead of rising up the chimney. She slammed the door and still the smoke spilled out of the stove. Damper! A flick of the wrist and Winnie opened the stovepipe damper. A whoosh of air sped up the pipe, the air cleared, and the city girl had herself an inviting fire. Small split logs were introduced to the blaze, then larger ones. Radiant heat welling from the open stove door wrung the chill out of her bones and firelight played cheery games on the walls.
Once she was satisfied with the strength of the blaze, she filled the stove to capacity, damped it down, and went into the back rooms to pull blankets and a comforter from the bunk beds. She curled up in the overstuffed chair and pulled the covers up to her chin. Heavenly warmth filled her little cocoon. The luxury of heat seeping into her bone-weary tissues sapped what little will she had to stay awake. Nuzzled face down into the comforter, Winnie fell into slumber in seconds.
“Wake up. Get up!”
A shrill male voice clapped the ears of the sleeping woman. Winnie awoke in a blind fright, a harsh light playing into her eyes. The flight reflex seized her muscles. She bolted from the chair, but a large hand intercepted her shoulder as she launched herself, and she slammed back down into the soft chair.
“Don’t move again,” a tight tenor voice yelled. “Who are you?”
A self-preservation response kicked in hard. She uttered two words: “A friend.”
“Friend of whom?”
Winnie ignored the question. “How did you know where I was?”
“Chimney smoke. Why are you here?”
“I came to see Abel.”
“Abel?” Once the name aired, the voice of the unseen man behind a big flashlight lens softened a bit. “You know Abel?”
Winnie sensed she now had an opening to exploit. She could turn this confrontation around to suit herself.
“Yes, I know him well.”
“You do? Look, you can’t stay here.”
“You may know me, too.”
“Me?”
“Will you get that light out of my face so we can talk in a civil manner,” Winnie demanded.
The flashlight flicked off. The male with the loud voice backed up and pulled the lit candle to the edge of the table so he could see the woman’s face. She could make out her antagonist in the candlelight, as well.
“I’m Winnie. Winnie. You know. Deschaines. I was here for four sessions last fall.”
“Jesus. You’re the woman from, what, Kansas City?” the man said, incredulous.
Winnie pulled away the blanket she had wrapped around her head to keep the cold at bay. She shook her hair about then looked at the dark face above her. “That’s right. See!”
A long moment of silence divided the two.
“What am I going to do with you?” the man fretted. “Look, we have this town locked down. Things have changed a lot here.”
“I have to see Abel as soon as I can.”
The man wiped a hand over his forehead and grimaced. “Ah, Winnie, look, it’s very late. Why don’t you just stay right here; at least I know who you are. Stay put. Come up to the CC in the morning. There’s a meeting first thing. Why don’t you come up for that, okay?”
“All right.”
“Good God, I’m not supposed to do this.” The man seemed to be in a quandary.
“Do what?”
“We voted to keep people out, you know. A precaution.”
“Why?”
“We’ve had problems. We expect we may have more.”
Chapter Ninety-One
Townspeople made their way on foot through a foot of new snow to the community center for the weekly morning meeting. Such a gathering was familiar fare, a cornerstone in the intimate true democratic process that all in the colony cherished. The meetings were part social bee, ‘round-the-pickle barrel’ news exchange, grievance session, political brouhaha, award ceremony or pep rally, depending on the season and the will of the people.
Inside the community center’s main hall, people busied themselves setting out folding chairs, chatting with neighbors and grumbling about the ugly storm and hard September cold. The room teemed with souls young and old. Abel wrestled to the head of the room a heavy, aged rock maple podium that had graced a Minnesota meeting hall as early as 1850. He called the meeting to order.
“Good morning, citizens in this great experiment, and welcome to our first March storm in the merry month of September.”