On Such A Full Sea

11

And so Fan, driving, listened to the tale of those first days for Quig and his family. Despite the awful details, his telling must have helped her relax at the wheel, the way music can allow our instincts to take over the countless mechanical operations that you couldn’t possibly orchestrate if you had to think through each one. Perhaps it’s the same for a storyteller, the sound of one’s own voice caretaking this turn and the next, and allowing the full flow.

Like everybody, Quig told her, they had read about banishments and would not hear again about those people, and so the day they drove away from their village, Glynnis was terrified, feeling certain that it was their death sentence. She couldn’t stop weeping, these squalls welling up from her chest. Quig was scared, too, though he tried his best not to show it. What helped was that he was preoccupied, though of all the things he should have been worrying about or focusing on, such as where they would spend that first night, or how they would defend themselves if confronted (like all Charters, they couldn’t legally own any weapons), he simply couldn’t settle on whether he should be driving slow or fast, which speed would attract less attention and thus be safest. So he kept alternating, slowing down and then accelerating for arbitrary stretches, until Glynnis finally begged him to stop driving that way. This broke the looped chain of his thoughts, and soon enough he realized that it was probably best to proceed smoothly and purposefully, as if they were heading someplace specific. But when you consider it, one comes to understand how the question might have gripped him. For what do you do when you truly have no idea where you’re heading? At least a pet could revert to its instinct to hide and forage and defend itself and even kill, but what of a former Charter family with meager funds and mostly useless trading possessions (a toaster oven, a cocktail dress) and just a tankful of fuel? Of course, there was no possibility of being accepted into a production settlement like B-Mor (which is always restricted) or trying to gain residency at another Charter, as their banishment was in force system wide. Imagine yourself at the helm of a ship slingshot beyond the Earth’s pull, one course into the spectral chasm as likely as any other, all coordinates open but potentially full of peril, each completely unknown.

He couldn’t help but think, too, that in her own way Trish was tilting with the same dreadful notions. She was totally quiet, which wasn’t like her, not making a sound from the backseat and barely grunting when he asked if she was hungry or had to go; aside from his own fear, his heart was breaking with the inescapable fact that her future was null and that her parents were the sole cause. He had considered suicide but he was sick with the idea of where that would leave his family, which in turn made him think of simply driving off the road at the next drop-off or ravine, delivering them together to a swift, merciful end. But that would be the coward’s path, and he was already angry at himself for the too easy slide he and Glynnis made into their illicit trade, when he should have been putting all his energies into retooling himself, and recalibrating his aspirations, even if it meant descending into the Charter’s service class and perhaps not rising for years, if ever. He should have allowed the linens business more time to grow; he should have been harsher with Glynnis when he first discovered the selling and demanded she cease, but he didn’t blame her, for he knew it was squarely his fault; he should have had more faith in himself rather than give in to his weaker qualities, in particular his overeagerness to please and aversion to conflict and a lifelong infatuation with hope, which had him dreaming more than doing. While his vet partners and Glynnis had been the entrepreneurial ones, he would have been content to welcome the pets and animals into his single office one by one, administering medications and performing surgeries and even brushing their teeth and clipping their nails if needed.

But now here he was, at the wheel of his family car, trekking into the open counties. There were some motels up ahead where you could also get a meal, but they were known at best to be grubby, dingy establishments, and very expensive, being relatively secure, certainly not affordable for more than a few days for any non-Charter. Naturally Charters would never stay there; they traveled by private copter or plane, or on upper-atmosphere globals if they went overseas, and would rarely take a car ride of more than a couple of hours.

Quig passed on the first two motels, one being full and the other so decrepit that it appeared it might imminently collapse, but there was nothing on the nav for a half day’s drive past the third one and he was compelled to stop. The large sign at the place read Who Falls Inn, as it was set beside a stream that ran, if meagerly, over a poured concrete dam, which was what made up the “falls.” What purpose the dam served, either past or present, was not apparent. There were a good number of other cars parked in the fenced-in lot and the two-level building was an aqua blue with roiling cascades of white water painted on the roof and on the walls under the eaves, well rendered in a certain way, if looking more like surf than gushing water. The place was tidy and well cared for, the plantings of flowers and shrubs around the building healthy and attractive, the footpath through the grass that unnecessarily snaked toward the front entrance lined with clean white stones and trimmed out with lengths of red garden hose, such that all in all the impression was of an establishment one might encounter in a folk tale, this colorful, friendly-looking hostelry in the middle of a nether land, which surely could not be as inviting as it seemed.

Which was why Quig and Glynnis had to warn Trish that they might not be staying there, their immediate shared thought being this was too good to be true. They waved to the vid cam and got buzzed in through the rolling section of fence gating. Quig composed himself by taking a series of long, deep breaths — he was not the man he’d soon have to become — and walked to the office window. He tapped on the three-fingers-thick plexiglass and a shade went up, revealing a bespectacled fellow, youngish but already bald, his Afro tightly sheared on the sides and meeting his neatly groomed beard and moustache. He wore a crisply pressed white dress shirt with a diamond-shaped monogram (LWA) stitched into the breast pocket of the shirt. When he saw Quig, who back then was wide-eyed and pale-skinned and looking very newly out of his element, the fellow’s expression hardened, no doubt anticipating the lengthy, pathetic sob story he’d endure and have to ignore once again. But Quig simply asked if there was a vacancy and if his car would be safe overnight, and the fellow — his name, they would soon learn, was Landon Wiggins Anderson — grumpily gestured that he should go retrieve his wife and daughter, and then he had them step through the metal detector.

Landon co-owned the inn with his partner, Dale, a short, tubby, florid-faced older white man who ushered them inside with a butterfly fluttering of hands and comments on how darling Trish looked in her polka-dot sundress and white patent-leather shoes and purse, an ensemble Glynnis had bought on their last day as Charter residents. It was something they could ill afford but Quig was actually happy she had splurged this one last time. Trish hadn’t said much at all about her new outfit but she was now showing off her new clutch to Dale, who disappeared and then returned with a box of costume jewelry pieces guests had left behind, and he said she could choose from and take as many items as she liked. Trish was a good girl so only chose a ring and a necklace, and it was only after Dale goaded her that she selected a ruby-crusted hairpin and a cowrie-shell bracelet.

Then he showed them their suite, one and a half rooms decorated in an English-hunt-country style (at least that’s how Dale described it), the walls painted to look like they were paneled with burled wood and the overstuffed furniture upholstered in faux leather and suede; framed prints of riders on horseback and foxhounds hung in sets of six along with the mounted heads of a horned gazelle and what looked to be a bobcat. There was a baronial carved-post bed in the inner room and the sofa outside was a sleeper and the bathroom, though not large, was beautifully tiled and set with an antique basin and claw-foot tub fitted with nickel-plated fixtures. There were only eight suites total (refitted from twenty rooms when they bought the property) because they never had more than a half-dozen guests and wanted each room done in a distinctive style, Vienna 1900 and Old Plantation and Balinese Treehouse, the work of finding and restoring pieces gradually accomplished over the years. They finally got everything done this spring, and though Dale was clearly pleased and proud to show off the inn, he admitted that without an ongoing project it was much too quiet, though Landon preferred it that way.

That evening at supper they met the other lodgers, two couples who owned their own businesses and a salesman for one of the huge agri-food concerns and a family of four from Denmark, who were touring America and were intentionally spending some time in the open counties. The Danes were exceptionally tall and attractive, and spoke a perfect, grammatical English, which was a stark contrast to the couples and the salesman, who were counties people of clearly decent means but were coarse in their manner and expressions and what they were willing to talk about at the table with strangers. One of the men kept going on about the side-by-side basins in his bathroom (the Aix-en-Provence suite) and how he made the mistake of doing his business in the wrong one and having to transfer it by hand to the other, which his wife and the other couple and the salesman wildly hooted at but that made Glynnis blanch with revulsion and misery. The Danish family was neither delighted nor disgusted, but rather fascinated, taking detailed mental notes about the social character and practices of these endemic creatures.

It was a good thing that Dale and Landon were in the kitchen at the time, as Landon in particular would have been appalled and perhaps demanded the rude guest leave the table and maybe the inn; you could see he was a fastidious and somewhat severe young man who held himself to an impossibly high standard and was being ground down inside by the burr of constant compromise and disappointment. But this made him, among other things, a needlessly excellent cook; the platters of pasta and salad and grilled wild pig that Dale brought out (it was Tuscan night) were as deftly executed and maybe tastier than most Charter restaurant fare, and he served to the adults tout compris a small glass of red wine — something you never saw outside of Charter villages because of its ludicrous price — simply because it was the perfect accompaniment to the meal.

The deep flavors and genuine warmth filling his belly made Quig think that perhaps life in the counties wouldn’t be as horrible as they assumed. Of course, they were spending a near tenth of their money stash for this single night and couldn’t justify staying for any longer, but the rational calculations that he would normally make didn’t seem relevant, not when he saw how the good food and softly lighted dining room was definitely calming Glynnis and had already lifted Trish out of her silence, as she was now gabbing with the Danish girl about their favorite pop singers and boy bands. They asked to be excused and went off to the chintz-heavy “reading room” to exchange songs and vids. Meanwhile, the adults discussed the issues of the day, at least as far as the open counties were concerned, the Danes and their teenage son listening intently and nodding and periodically asking for clarification of a certain term or reference.

The primary focus of their talk was an enduring counties topic, at least as Quig and Glynnis understood it when they were Charters, which was the idea of confederating the many hundreds of counties communities in this part of the country, much like the Charters were organized. One of the problems was the sheer number of them, some constituted and run like any old-time town or small city, with a fairly dependable infrastructure and public services, the much greater number being impromptu settlements that had grown over the years and were known only by somebody’s name, such as Tinkersville or the Vromans. Those who believed in confederation were always trying to enlist the contiguous or neighboring settlements to pool security and emergency resources, and increase their negotiating power for services, but it never got very far, the leaderships of the entities ultimately unable to agree on who would subordinate themselves, despite the fact that joining together would likely benefit their people. The settlements originally developed because the old-time towns and small cities were dying off because of crushing debts, as they couldn’t afford to run the schools and repave streets and fix the sewers, the last intact services usually being the police. There were many opportunistic gangs and sundry marauders. But it didn’t take long for the inevitable turn, which is that the police forces took over the towns, the chiefs and their officers deposing (often violently) the mayors and other administrators; in fact, many of the settlements are now led by the descendants of those first strongmen, who generation after generation have exercised a martial level of control over their residents, and have profited commensurately through the direct or shadow ownership of food stores and the flow of utilities. Naturally, the generally dismal quality of life from time to time fomented brutal coups, the latest instance of which usually pushed another round of chatter about confederation and its promise of stability and security, which is what was happening now.

The whole idea is to follow a Charter model, one of the women said. Her name was Ursula. It’s better for all. Why should Bennett and I keep trying to expand our clothing business when we know somebody from the counties council is going to come up and threaten to shoot us in the face and sell our kids to slavers if we don’t give them a quarter of our receipts?

We oughta live in a more civilized way, the fellow who brought up his bidet replied. But then we’re not as smart as Charters!

Or as good-looking! Bennett hooted. They toasted one another, not with the precious wine, which they’d instantly slurped down, but with a big bottle of moonshine one of them had BYOB’d.

I think it’s about the councils just stringing us along, the salesman said. They know what they’re doing. Keep us talking and arguing about this detail and that, keep us off balance. Keep us wondering. But they’re not going to give up anything of real value, let me tell you. Your grandkids will be having this same conversation when they’re our age. That’s why I’ll never have a family. No offense, but what’s the point?

So why the hell bother? Ursula asked him. What are you even hoping for?

The salesman extended his own emptied wineglass and Bennett poured him a shot of the clear spirits. Who knows? he said, drinking it down, wincing but satisfied. His voice was whispery from the burn. I’m just passing time, like everybody else. I try to earn enough to always have a full belly and a warm, dry place to sleep and to cover my handscreen fees.

And hootch and cootch with whatever’s left over! the bidet fellow cried.

They drank again to that, as did Ursula, who in the end didn’t seem to mind very much, if at all. In the counties you better have it while you have it, is what Quig and Glynnis were realizing, and they gamely tried some of the homemade booze, too, though neither of them liked it, as it tasted like turpentine. When the others asked what they did and where they were heading, Glynnis simply blurted, We’re visiting a supplier back east, a reply that was sufficiently nonsensical and blunting that no one inquired any further. The striking gray-eyed Danes, who had been observing the proceedings with a scholarly detachment, were now drinking and joking with great enthusiasm, their English not spoken as cleanly as before but rather lustily and with a more pronounced foreign accent, the father animated enough that the odd Danish word elided into his phrases and his rectangular-framed glasses kept steaming up and needed blotting. For dessert Dale brought out a platter of individual mini-cheesecakes topped with wild blackberries, and when the coffee was served, Landon emerged from the kitchen in a clean white apron and modestly acknowledged the compliments from the table, before retiring for the night. Dale then told them how Landon’s parents were well-respected Charter chefs who were killed by carbon monoxide poisoning from a faulty gas-powered refrigerator in their restaurant while Landon was away at summer camp. He lived with foster families until he was of age, when he left the Charter for good. They had met at a counties LGBT roadhouse where Landon was cooking short-order, Dale commenting to the bartender how the cheeseburger was the best he’d ever had, though he couldn’t exactly say why, which is when there was a murmur from the pass-through that it was the catsup, which was made from scratch, along with the mayonnaise and pickle relish. Dale peeked back and there was Landon, a skinny, prematurely balding kid working alone in a tiny but spotless kitchen, the pans and utensils organized by size and kind. It was love at an instant, at least for Dale — Landon was not one to be swept away emotionally — and here they were all these years later, growing older together, if somewhat now in a rut.

The other woman said they were obviously doing a good business, judging from the quality of the rooms and furnishings, and Dale admitted that it wasn’t terribly profitable, though could be if they didn’t always spend so much on doing everything “right,” which was a point of contention between them. With a different emphasis, someone else could make a good living, and they were considering selling and moving on to something new, a possibility that Quig and Glynnis ruminated that night in their huge plush bed, imagining how they might settle right here, where everything was already set up, learning the hospitality business while homeschooling Trish. Glynnis was not the cook Landon was, but she was definitely good enough to make simple, satisfying fare for their guests. Dealing with strangers all the time, they’d rarely be alone, which seemed a vulnerable situation but was likely safer than homesteading or living in some anarchic, lawless settlement.

The problem was the money; there was no way they could purchase the inn, not with their pathetic store of cash, not with their car, which wasn’t as good as the one Dale and Landon already owned, not even, they coldly calculated, with their lives, i.e., giving one of themselves over to be done with as the innkeepers wished. Glynnis was obviously not of interest to them but neither was Quig, for Dale and Landon would probably never countenance such a thing, which was not unheard of out here in the counties but clearly not truck for decent fellows like them. The only scenario they could come up with was that Dale and Landon mortgage the business to them and that Quig and Glynnis agree to pay all the profits until a certain sum was satisfied. For as long as they could feed and clothe themselves and maintain the property to an acceptable level, what more could they hope for?

They slept late and while the others were having the breakfast buffet (freshly baked scones, soft-boiled eggs and toast, good strong coffee), Quig and Glynnis and Trish sat down with Dale and Landon in the office and made their pitch. Surprisingly, it was Dale who was sour on the idea, his face screwing up as they outlined their proposal. Landon asked what they were thinking in terms of a price, but Dale immediately pointed out that they had zero experience and stood up, saying he had to go clear the dining room. Glynnis started to cry and Quig, realizing that within a mere hour they’d be out on the road again, clueless and wandering, said they had no idea and that he should just name one, that they’d agree to anything that was doable. They would work for free while getting tutored in the operation to show that they could do it, clean the rooms and wash the linens and do whatever else was needed around the property.

Landon asked them to wait outside while he and Dale discussed it. This is going to be history’s shortest conversation, they heard Dale say, as Landon shut the armored security door. They could only hear faint murmurings through the fortified panel but the murmurings went on, taking a higher pitch before they went silent for what seemed a telling amount of time. Almost but not. Quig regarded his wife’s desiccated expression and thought he could see in her widened eyes the darkened wells of their future. But it was also clarifying; immediately he felt that they should quickly gather their things and leave behind forever this lovely but false dream. This was not their station because such a station was not to be bestowed or bought or discovered. It was up to them to fashion one, this was the only way. They would either forge a living according with their character and capability, or soon suffer.

The office door opened and the two men emerged, Dale going straight for Glynnis and embracing her.

It’s all yours if you wish, he said, holding her by the shoulders, and seeing her face light up, he embraced her again.

We will have to discuss terms, Landon said to Quig, who was speechless. Quig needed to pry Glynnis from Dale but she was shuddering with tears of exultant relief and his present resolve was now dissipating in his own eyes that were welling with gratitude and love for his fragile wife. In fact, he was about to collapse fully inside and take her up in his arms when they heard a blast, like a backfire, and then a sharp, yawing scream coming from the other end of the building: it was the voice of the Danish girl, Caroline, whose name Trish now muttered.

Trish instinctively rose to go toward the ruckus, but her mother cuffed her. Trish begged for someone to go see what was wrong and Quig said he would, Landon already retrieving an old pistol from the office desk and ordering Dale to lock himself inside, along with Glynnis and Trish. Glynnis didn’t want Quig to go but they both knew that he probably should, given what they’d bargained for.

Landon and Quig stopped and crouched in the corridor before reaching the dining area. Through its wide opening they could see the salesman, or what was left of him, shot in the neck and lower face and slumped backward in his chair. Caroline sat beside him, her face and shirt brightly flecked with blood and bits of flesh, as a lean, bearded young man pushed the nose of a shotgun barrel into her temple, manically threatening to shoot her and everyone else if she didn’t shut up, while his accomplice, similarly scraggly and youthful, picked through the jewelry and handbags and wallets that had been tossed into the center of the table, a pistol tucked into the back of his jeans.

But Caroline couldn’t stop spastically huffing and crying, and her father, Jørgen, was going on in what came across like a clipped, haughty tone (it was his accent plus high breeding plus extreme duress expressing themselves in this unfortunate way), arguing that the gunman think about what he was doing, that there was no reason for further violence, that they were all “in compliance,” but the young man was clearly drugged up and getting unhinged by the girl’s crying, and perhaps even more so by her father.

Yo! Didn’t I just shoot that guy’s face in half when he got mouthy? You want to see this girl look like that, too?

Jørgen said of course he would not, and might have continued had Ursula not told him to quit talking right now or she’d kill him herself, adding that he was already to blame for letting these boys into the building. How insanely stupid could he be! The gunman hollered at her and she insisted she was on his side, and he said, Shut up now! and she said, But really I am! and he said, No, you’re not! and shot her point-blank in the chest, instantly killing her.

His partner in crime, who was serenely inspecting the loot right next to her, hardly seemed to notice. Everybody else then went perfectly silent, if you didn’t count the crying. And from the corridor Quig and Landon kept quiet, too; Quig, who we must note again was then much younger, and Charter-raised, realized he had lost feeling in his hands and legs, crippling fear as he had never known it. Landon pulled him back into the corridor and motioned that they should retreat to the office, which Quig was all for, given his palsy and Landon’s frozen visage and the fact that Landon was gripping the pistol so tightly it felt as if he might accidentally pull the trigger.

They got on their feet ready to sprint back to the safety of the office, but Quig stubbed his half-numb foot on the edge of the carpet runner and toppled like a headstone. The thud brought out the quiet accomplice, who walked straight up to Landon with his gun drawn and told him to put his down, which Landon did.

I think you two own this place, he said, neither Landon nor Quig able to speak.

It was soon thereafter that everything went to hell. Surely we can imagine how horrible it was, how utterly debased and hideous, the senseless waste and loss that is an ever-present counties possibility and that in one swift, complete act remade Quig. Which was this: the whole dining room was shot dead. Then Landon and Quig, after being badly pistol-whipped, were pushed to the office by the youthful robbers.

They’re gonna get it if you don’t open up, the hyper one bellowed at the armored door. He had already attempted to shoot out the lock, but it was a custom-made blast door that magically absorbed the pellets.

Don’t open no matter what, Landon shouted. They’ll kill us anyway, like they did everyone else.

That may be true, the quiet one muttered. But it won’t be quick. He then took hold of Landon’s hand and shot it, blowing off parts of some fingers. Landon screamed as he fell to his knees and you could hear Dale’s muted cries of his partner’s name. This only prompted the young man to tap the door with the butt of the pistol and say, Listen, and then he shot Landon again in the hand, ruining what was left; the poor fellow wailed again but much more weakly, overcome by shock as Quig braced him.

Dale was now frantic and pounding on his side of the door. Quig hollered for him not to open it, his fear now replaced by fury, at the marauders but also himself, for literally falling down in every way. He had committed a crime, yes, but it was never one of malice and so what greater transgression had he done to bring such profound misfortune upon his beloved? He had only done fine veterinary work, with caring and integrity. What was otherwise so wrong with his character and life? These were his instant, infinite-sided thoughts while entreating Dale at the top of his lungs, but all at once he was prone, bludgeoned with the butt of the shotgun. He was losing consciousness, the world going milky. The door then swung in, revealing Dale lamely holding a knife, Trish and Glynnis barely shielded behind him. And before he could say a last good word to them, the one with the shotgun stepped over the threshold and began blasting away.

For us B-Mors it’s difficult to accept such a transformation, being as willingly cloistered as we are, even our entertainments and tours designed to take us the middle distances, the thrums never so intense as to invite anything more than the standard extrapolations. What’s the point? In essence, people don’t want to go too far, at least not for long. It’s too much for the mind. Charters are equally sheltered, but whether they wish to recognize it or not, the native fuel of their society is risk, and when they fall, they fall from heights that very few can survive.

Fan, gentle-hearted girl that she was, couldn’t bear to ask what the scene was like when Quig came to. She thought she could see it anyway, flashes in the cold screen of his eyes, burned in. For Quig didn’t quite survive, Fan knew that. The robbers left after a futile search of the office for cash, leaving him and Landon alive, he later realized, only because they’d run out of ammunition. So instead they set fire to the inn, Quig roused out of his unconsciousness by the heat and choking smoke. The office, with its tragic hold, was already aflame. He managed to drag Landon a safe distance from the building but realized once in the clear that he had lost too much blood and was dead. Quig lay down again, spent by vertigo, and for the rest of the night felt the heat of everything torching. In the morning it was a stand of char. But his sense of balance was back, and he walked to his car, the keys in his pocket and the contents of the vehicle the only possessions he had left.